


The Music You Cast; The Magic You Compose

by gly13



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: All pairings are important, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Music, Mutual Pining, OT21 (NCT), Post-War, Royal Guard Johnny, Slow Burn, as well as a bunch more characters like seriously there's so many, prince taeyong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-02-10 13:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18661252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gly13/pseuds/gly13
Summary: “Don’t think the war is over because it’s not. Remember that someone is always listening.” Taeyong’s eyes flit around again. “Stay safe, Johnny. Please."And then he was gone.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to my first ever fanfiction
> 
> okay first things first: a massive thank you to my best friend Caitlin for proofreading this even though she has no clue who NCT are - you are a literal saint
> 
> some of the characters in this story may behave poorly or immorally, but this is a work of fiction and if i've used someone's name it means i love their irl counterpart tremendously and this portrayal is not an accurate representation of them - i have nothing against anyone featured in this fic
> 
> this is not the first thing i've ever written but it is the first thing i've ever published so i'm hella nervous but really hope you'll enjoy

 

_ five _

 

Taeyong is in the process of persuading Doyoung and Jungwoo to sneak into the kitchens with him when he notices the lanky boy with fluffy hair struggling to lift a sword.

He’s new. Obviously. Taeyong knows every soul in the castle - and they know him - yet he is not familiar with the bright smile that splits the boy’s face, in spite of his evident failing attempt at wielding the iron blade. The boy’s arms flex futilely, a glint in his eyes that refuses to recognise it as such and his mouth is moving in words Taeyong can’t make out from his position at his window. 

He can tell the new boy is tall, though. Even from there.

Doyoung looks up from his book, and Jungwoo away from the flower he’d been pressing between the pages of his own when Taeyong trails off mid-sentence, too transfixed by the sight of someone new in the castle where everything always stays the same.

They exchange a look of confusion before making their way towards Taeyong’s vantage point. They follow his line of sight, and Taeyong would notice the way their eyes widen in unison if he weren’t still staring at this new boy.

He’s not an intruder, that’s clear enough.

Hyunwoo, the trusted captain of the royal guard, stands beside him, mouth open in that loud but polite laughter he always makes when he’s trying not to embarrass someone, but finds them very funny. Taeyong finds himself smiling as he watches them.

Doyoung starts to speculate who he is, reasonable theories like a lord’s son newly enrolled in the royal guard training programme, or perhaps even Hyunwoo’s nephew.

Though Taeyong argues that he knows all the lord’s sons - that he has to. That he has to attend so many afternoon teas and visit so many estates and wear so many uncomfortable clothes and sit up too straight so often that it would be impossible for him to not know a lord’s son.

Jungwoo’s suggestions are much more ludicrous, no doubt pulled from the stories Taeyong sometimes feeds into his head when he has trouble sleeping. Jungwoo supposes that he’s a secret prince hiding from those who wish to overrun his kingdom, or a traitorous spy from a far-away kingdom like Ziyou, sent here to learn all of Meridianam’s weaknesses.

To which Taeyong proudly declares, “Meridianam has no weaknesses!”

And amidst all this speculation, it is Doyoung who reminds them that the easiest way to find out who the boy is, is to ask him.

And all three of the boys make haste in the direction of the door.

They run as quickly as they can - which is not very fast at all - across the palace gardens until they are in front of him. All of them looking up at him, as he hesitantly drops the sword, a sheepish smile on his face. Taeyong wonders if he ever stops smiling, and a part of him hopes he doesn’t.

The three of them stare at him for a moment and he seems to take the hint, holding out his hand for Taeyong to take. And it’s then that Taeyong meets his eyes for the first time ever. And his five-year-old self doesn’t find this meeting dramatic or important in the slightest, but he does know that he likes this new boy’s eyes - that there’s something warm about them.

He takes the boy’s hand and as soon as he does, the boy begins swinging their joint hands up and down in enthusiastic motions Taeyong has been repeatedly told is impolite and improper. But the boy does not seem to care.

His grin grows impossibly larger as their hands part and he reaches for Doyoung’s behind him.

“I’m Johnny,” he says.

 

_ six _

 

When Mark is born, Taeyong stands alongside his siblings, the last in a line of three, underneath banners of a pale pink and dressed in silks of the same colour.

Mark is introduced to the kingdom, held safely in their mother’s arms, in front of the entire court. And soft lilting music resonates through the air as Taeyong gazes upon his little brother.

_ His _ .

And something fills his chest that he can’t describe. But it’s warm and it makes him happy whenever he looks at the tiny form with a head too big for his body and chubby fingers and eyes squinting at the bright light in the throne room. He asks Joohyun quietly, trying to describe it as best he can, but she only pinches his cheek and gives him a weird look, saying something about welcoming him to the world of older siblings.

He spends hours by his brother’s crib, telling him all about the family.

He tells him about their mother: the Queen of the greatest kingdom in the world, who is kind and fair and just and has so much love to give that, really, everyone in the kingdom are their brothers and sisters. He tells him she is overseeing a court meeting at that very moment and everyone always goes silent when she speaks, because they want to hear her.

He tells him about their father: and how he’s less involved in politics but is in the middle of a visit to one of the nearby villages, just talking to their people and listening to them.

He tells him about Joohyun: their oldest sister and first in line for the throne. He tells Mark about how she looks scary when you first meet her, but she’s so funny and always lets Taeyong sleep in her bed when he’s scared of a storm outside. He tells him that she is the one standing slightly to the right and behind their mother, chin held high and face a picture of concentration.

He tells him about Taeil, their older brother and how he makes weird jokes that no one really understands but everyone laughs anyway, and how he can be a bit strict, but only because he loves them and wants them to be safe.

But most importantly, he never stops telling Mark about how much he loves him, and how he swears to protect him. Because he’s never been entrusted with anything as precious and special as a little brother and he refuses to let him get hurt. 

 

_ nine _

 

Taeyong is nine when the lessons start.

Not his usual lessons where he learns history and how to read, these ones are entitled ‘royal etiquette’ and teach him how to behave. And when he protests indignantly, stating that he knows about manners and how to be polite - that special lessons aren’t necessary - his teacher looks at him with a look that seems to communicate that he  _ clearly does not _ .

These lessons teach him to not be rowdy, or loud, or be open about his opinions. They tell him to sit still and be pretty. They tell him that any influence he has on a court will be subtle, that he must never speak up and only operate behind the scenes.

They introduce him to what they call the ‘Whisper Court’, wherein the only things Taeyong is allowed to say of a political nature must be whispered. They tell him the whisper court is constructed of lies and manipulation and how maintaining your position in it is an art.

But no one else is learning about the Whisper Court. And Taeyong asks why.

And it’s because, he learns, he is the third prince. And no one wants a loud and brash husband who makes it obvious he intends to take over the kingdom he marries into. They want a husband who will play simple piano melodies and smile innocently and accompany them to balls and look frail so they look strong in comparison.

Taeyong is nine when he learns his true position in his court.

 

 

Aeternum is a travelling dance group, invited by special order of Queen Taeyeon to perform for the royal court. And Taeyong sits, as straight as anyone could want from him as they begin their performance.

And Taeyong is bewitched.

He is enraptured by their movements as they contort their bodies in fluid motions. They even seem to breathe as one and yet each of them is so utterly unique in their style. The music has infused itself into their bones - it must have - that’s the only explanation Taeyong’s mind can conjure as he watches these people - these divine beings - bend the notes of the music to their will.

His eyes are fixed on them as they dance and he is entranced by the freedom their dancing possesses. It is so far removed from the boxed, contained dance that he has been taught and suddenly there is a craving deep in the pit of his gut that yearns for that freedom, that power, that ability.

The performance ends, far too soon, and Taeyong is pulled out of his stupor by the fierce sound of applause. He turns to his parents and begs to meet with the dancers, begs to have them perform again soon.

And it is within minutes that he is running down the stairs to meet with the leader of Aeternum, a tall man who moves with as much grace as he dances. Taeyong bursts into an incoherent mess of praise, stumbling through his words and sure that his teachers would be ashamed, but he cannot bring himself to care. The man is kind and thanks him whole-heartedly, a genuine smile on his face.

He introduces himself as Hakyeon Cha and does the same for the people who accompany him, naming them. Taeyong finds that one of them is not much older than he is, a small pixie-looking boy named Ten who grins with his teeth when Taeyong tells him that he danced spectacularly.

Taeyong asks how - how are they so beautiful and skilled and Hakyeon laughs, but not unkindly.

“Practice,” he says, a strange glint his eye, “and passion. A lot of passion.”

 

_ ten _

 

The first time Taeyong sneaks out of the castle in the darkness of the night, he is tired and fed up with the lessons about being quiet and restrained when he wants anything but. He is accompanied by Johnny. Because Johnny, for all his differences in lifestyle, understands not being able to do what you want.

Johnny leads him out of the castle by a route he knows no guards will be, with a gentle smile on his face and soft reassurances that they won’t be caught. The moon is high and bright in the sky as Johnny helps Taeyong over the palace wall, his arms strong from ferrying the soldiers’ equipment back and forth across the training grounds.

And that smile never leaves his face.

And as Johnny pulls his hand through a thicket of trees until they come to rest on the edge of a hill that overlooks a large part of the village below and is far enough from the castle for freedom but close enough for a sense of security, Taeyong realises why he requested Johnny’s help in escaping for one night and not Doyoung or Jungwoo or Joohyun. 

Because even as Taeyong is being told to be quieter and keep his head down, Johnny is loud and brash and everything Taeyong is not allowed to be. And he encourages Taeyong to be like that, too.

But, in this moment, when he knows Taeyong wants to talk but is being held back by hours of lessons and tens of nagging voices, Johnny is silent.

“I think it’s wrong,” Taeyong starts, looking at the grass beneath them, hand fidgeting around with the fingers Johnny has intertwined through his. “All the whispers. And the lies. And the secrets. It doesn’t seem like an art at all - it seems insincere, cowardly. I’m learning to be a liar and to manipulate people I don’t even know and all of it seems just so… wrong.”

Johnny’s hand tightens around his.

“I don’t want to be… lingering in the shadows, getting people to do my dirty work and blackmailing people and all the while maintaining the facade of the perfect husband who can’t fight because he’s so weak, so how could he ever be a threat?” 

His voice is bitter now but it loses some of its edge as he mutters out his next words. Quiet, because he’s still afraid that, somehow, someone might hear.

“I just want to dance, Johnny.”

And he finally turns to look Johnny in the eyes and finds nothing but concern and a slight sadness there. And, for once, it seems as though Johnny is struggling to find the right words and the confidence with which he approaches everything in his life – his training, his fights – seems to be lost to the wind that tosses blades of grass around at their feet.

Taeyong averts his eyes first, disliking the lack of response, tired of waiting for an answer to an impossible question, angry at himself for ever trying to delude himself that Johnny would somehow conjure up some miraculous solution. His eyes scan over the village below, quiet and dark, just for something to look at.

When Johnny does finally speak, his voice is much softer than Taeyong has ever heard it before.

“I’d say rebel. I’d say do whatever you want and don’t care what anyone else thinks, but I think we both know that’s impossible. You have a duty and you have to do it. You’re the prince of our country, Tae, you can’t just up and decide to become a dancer and leave your people. You don’t get that choice.”

And he’s right, but it’s not what Taeyong wants to hear so he makes to pull his hand away from Johnny’s grasp, only for Johnny to tighten it even more, continuing to speak despite Taeyong’s obvious discomfort.

“But you deserve to be happy, Taeyong. And I know you and I know you’re sincere and truthful and everything they’re telling you not be and you don’t deserve to become a liar and manipulator just to serve your country. You have a kind heart and you can be – you  _ are _ – still strong without all the deceit.”

Taeyong turns his gaze back to where Johnny’s never left the side of his face.

“You can still dance, Tae. You can dance the way you want. And you might not be part of a travelling dance troupe and perform across the world, but you can still perform and, maybe, one day, other people will watch you and people will flock from all around to see the beautiful dancing prince of Meridianam.”

Johnny took Taeyong’s other hand in his, making sure he was looking straight into his eyes as he spoke.

“Don’t let them break you, Yongie.”

And Johnny’s confidence is back as Taeyong swells with the words, a grin breaking out on his face and effectively lighting up the dark clearing. Taeyong lets go of Johnny’s hands, slinging his arms around the taller boy’s neck instead and burying his head in the crook of his neck. He mutters words of gratitude, mouth pressed against Johnny’s skin and Johnny only shakes his head, arms wrapping around Taeyong’s midriff with practised ease.

They stay like that for a while, Taeyong basking in the comfort Johnny brings him. Taeyong pulls back when Johnny begins to speak again, voice unnaturally shaky.

 “I also wanted to ask you something… A favour, I guess – and you’re more than welcome to say no.”

    When Johnny trails off, Taeyong looks him square in the eyes, parroting their positions from before when he takes Johnny’s hands into his own. His gaze is gentle, compelling Johnny to continue. Seeing Johnny hesitant is unsettling.

       Johnny sees this and a brief but true smile flits across his lips for the barest second before they part to speak.

“I was walking past the ballroom the other day, and I heard one of your piano lessons - it was beautiful,” he exhales in a single breath and awe dances behind the embarrassment in his eyes. “And I- I wanted to know if you would – if you would consider – teaching me to play. The other guards and squires all think it’s not really all that manly and they’d probably laugh if they knew, but it just- it just sounded so,  _ so _ beautiful. And I was watching you and it seemed so delicate and all I’m really good for is swinging around big swords so I’d probably be useless, but I want to. And I know it sounds ridiculous-”

      Johnny is inclined to speak a lot at the best of times, but even more so when he’s nervous, so Taeyong finds it somewhat necessary to cut him off.

       “Of course.”

       And it seems to take a while for Johnny to comprehend what’s just been said as his words die on his tongue and his sentence is left unfinished.

       “What?”

       “Of course I’ll teach you, you idiot,” Taeyong declares with a great smile on his face, delighted at the prospect of one of his lessons actually being good for something other than making him a good husband to a crown prince or princess in the future. “Though I do have one condition.”

       “Anything,” Johnny says, still very obviously stunned.

       “When you become this great and amazing pianist, you have to play for me while I dance.”

       “I’d love that.”

       And Johnny abandons Taeyong’s hands, flinging himself over Taeyong’s petite form and hugging him tightly. And Taeyong can barely breathe but he doesn’t care. For once, he can’t find it in himself to care about anything.

 

 

       “Taeyong! Jungwoo! Look what I found!” Doyoung comes barrelling through Taeyong’s chamber’s door, a heavy tome in his hands.

       The named pair look up from their respective books, surprise written on their faces at the large, gummy smile Doyoung is sporting as he drops to the floor in the centre of the room, placing the book in front of him and beckoning them over.

       Taeyong, more than happy to abandon yet another book on finance, jumps off his bed eagerly, settling down next to Doyoung. Jungwoo follows, much more careful about setting down his book – some wishy-washy romance tale – before joining them, appraising the book curiously.

       They wait apprehensively as Doyoung gestures repeatedly to the book and they read its title, letting out gasps in unison upon doing so.

       “It’s a book about magic!” Doyoung near screams, giddy, and Jungwoo quickly shushes him, looking around.

       They know magic exists, for everyone does. But it is an enigma whispered through the minds of deluded children, only for them to be told that it is dirty and wrong and evil as they grow until they, too, reject it and its existence. Other kingdoms practise it and it is not illegal or banned, but those who do dare to perform the act are shunned, ignored. The royals have a strange distaste for it, one that Taeyong’s teachers have tried to also breed into him.

       Taeyong reaches towards the volume, gingerly thumbing along its back. It’s rough, old, and, worn and Taeyong is so frightened of breaking it as he lifts the cover gently, revealing yellowing pages adorned with thick, cursive writing in a language with familiar letters but in new patterns. It’s similar to the words he knows, but it’s different at the same time, and Taeyong is struck by the desire to decipher it. As though he can feel the power they possess, if he could just understand.

       Doyoung continues to speak as Taeyong and Jungwoo inspect the book, eyes studying the words intently even if they aren’t sure what they mean.

       “It took me a while, but I figured it out,” Doyoung is still smiling as he speaks, still buzzing with excitement and pride. “I compared the language in the book to some of the older books we have in the library when the older scholars weren’t looking, and it’s our language, just devolved.”

       He pauses, allowing time for Jungwoo and Taeyong to marvel at his cleverness before continuing, words quick in his haste to divulge his knowledge.

“So I used some of them, and I think I understand how magic works. We could learn to use magic! Us!” Doyoung looks at them, delighted with the prospect and it is only upon turning to them and seeing their faces that he seems to remember the reality of the world they live in. His smile falls off his face, giving way to something far more serious, pleading. “Guys, it’s not like it’s illegal. No one has to know.  _ Please.” _

“It’s _magic,_ ” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Taeyong and Jungwoo exchange a look. Taeyong’s gaze falls to the open pages of a book. And his mind turns over everything that understanding it means. He thinks about his parents who hate magic, ban it from their home; he thinks of Taeil and his aversion to people using unnatural means to an end.

But then he thinks of Johnny, and  _ ‘you deserve to be happy, Tae’ _ . And he thinks of Doyoung’s excitement turned anxiety. And he thinks, for once, of himself.

And he finds himself nodding as he turns to look back at Doyoung whose face now floods with relief.

“Tell me.”

Doyoung lets out an undignified sound, something like a squawk, as he flips through the pages. He reaches the one he wants with a triumphant noise and begins translating for them, and, as he does so, Taeyong steadily starts to understand what the new patterns of letters mean.

“Magic,” Doyoung reads, “is an art form born from passion. Or rather, it’s passion so strong that the only way to manifest itself is through means that defy natural laws: through magic. Magic is unrestrained love and devotion. For anything, for anyone. Magic does not present itself to the ingenuine.”

They sit in an awe-filled silence for a moment before Jungwoo breaks it.

“So… We just have to really love something? That doesn’t seem difficult.”

“Well,” Doyoung says, fingers back on the pages of the book, searching, “the book says it is a matter of knowing how to manifest your passion in magical ways, typically. But in rare circumstances, emotions can be so extreme that it just takes over and becomes magic.”

“And you can choose what type of magic you have? I could do anything?” Taeyong asks, enthusiasm rippling through him.

“Um.. well... no. I think? I don’t know,” Doyoung says, voice smaller now, unused to not knowing something. “I haven’t had time to read the entire book yet. I wanted to show it to you guys as quickly as I could.”

Taeyong’s happiness is not dampened by the news, and he quickly works to make sure Doyoung’s mood is as unaffected as his.

“That’s fine, Doie. This is amazing! I can’t believe you actually found this. And you figured out the language all by yourself. You really are the smartest person in the castle, aren’t you?”

Doyoung swells under the praise, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. Jungwoo shoots Taeyong a quick smile.

“Well, I think it did say something about the form in which the magic presents itself depends on,” Doyoung stops on a page, eyes scanning over the words quickly, “the user’s personality. It’s nothing specific but it does seem to suggest that it’s not a choice, but just a physicalisation of the emotion which caused the magic. I think you can be trained to use a certain type of magic, but it’s difficult and probably quite forceful.”

And they can tell normal Doyoung has returned because he is using big words that he picks up from his late nights exploring the depths of the library. They exchange another look.

“So we just need to find something we’re passionate about?” Jungwoo asks. “We can do that.”

“We can definitely do that,” Taeyong affirms with a grin.

“We’re going to learn magic. Actual magic!”

And they turn back to the book, grins stretching out on all three of their faces.

 

_ eleven _

 

Taeyong knows what his passion is for, feels it well deep in his chest every time he and Johnny meet late at night. Johnny is good enough now that he can play without Taeyong instructing him, though he still can’t read music. Instead, he plays from memory and where he forgets he invents short melodies of his own until he remembers.

But those improvisations are Taeyong’s favourite parts.

They always meet in the ballroom, where Johnny can grace his fingers across the keys of the ebony grand piano and Taeyong has the space to go wherever his dance takes him. They rarely speak, for they can do that in the day so long as it is nothing serious.

He feels it the most whenever the piece Johnny is playing reaches its climax, and his dance turns wild and loses some its grace. And he is so inside of his own head and all that exists is the music and that feeling and it keeps building and building until it is aching with the desire to be released. And he can near feel it spilling over into something not natural and it is all he can do to contain it.

He loves that feeling.

He and Johnny spend many hours that way, gentle music filling the empty hall. Escaping from what they are meant to be and indulging in who they want to be.

And that might be the only time Taeyong is thankful for being taught how to keep secrets.

He knows that feeling so well, that he begins to see it – feel it – when other people feel it too.

He feels it just before Doyoung freezes his first glass of water, feels it seep out of him and infuse with the liquid. He feels it the first time Jungwoo blooms a flower in their garden, mid-winter, and it still towers over all the others when spring comes.

And he feels it when he’s least expecting to. During his birthday celebrations.

 

_ twelve _

 

As he has done every year since he was nine, Taeyong runs down the stairs leading to the ballroom floor to meet with Aeternum as they finish their performance. Hakyeon and the others all turn to him expectantly, sweat glistening across their foreheads, affectionate smiles across their faces.

Taeyong pulls to a stop, ensuring chatter has filled the hall sufficiently before speaking in a hushed whisper.

“You use magic!” 

Their faces fall simultaneously. And the younger ones look at Hakyeon in fear, edging closer away from the people who surround them on all sides. Hakyeon’s own face remains smiling, though it becomes strained as he answers.

“No, Your Highness, I assure you that, while our dancing may seem magical, it is simply the result of a lifetime of practice.”

“And passion,” Taeyong continues earnestly, unperturbed by the unsettled glances being thrown his way by the dancers, “that’s what you said - I remember. And I felt it. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. I just want to know how - I want you to teach me, please.”

The dancers look at each other, eyes wide. Hakyeon makes to open his mouth before he closes it again.

Finally, he speaks, in a quiet whisper, voice, for the first time since Taeyong has known him, scared, “how did you know?”

“I felt it. I can always feel it. Ever since Doyoung found this book about magic and we started learning it. I feel it whenever I dance and whenever Doyoung tells me about a new book he found and whenever Jungwoo and I sneak into the kitchens to steal a cake and I feel it when you dance. And I won't tell anyone; I promise. I know people don't like magic but I think it's beautiful and I want nothing more than to learn. Please.”

The loud voices of the rest of the audience fill in the silence the dancers leave as they all look at each other. But, to Taeyong, it seems as if they are all muffled, drowned out by the deep longing in his chest.

Hakyeon seems to turn to each member of his dance troupe in turn, regarding them and their opinions silently. His eyes fall to Ten last and Taeyong knows he has succeeded - he and Ten have become close friends and he is sure Ten would not deny him this opportunity. He is proven right when Ten smiles his signature grin and runs to pull Taeyong into a hug, still sweaty from dancing but Taeyong doesn’t care as he pulls him in tighter.

“Welcome to the family, Your Highness,” Ten whispers in his ear just before he pulls away.

And Taeyong is elated, happiness flooding through him as he is passed around the entire troupe, enveloped in loving embraces.

Seulgi wraps him tightly in her arms, her eyes scrunched up in happiness that is such a contrast to the dangerous, dark aura she emits when she dances. She tells him she can’t wait to see him dance, and can’t wait to see what form his magic takes even more.

Taemin and Jongin pull him into a joint hug with the both of them, mischievous glints in their eyes as they say, “knew you’d figure it out, Princey.” Before pulling back and fixing Taeyong with blinding grins.

The newest editions to the troupe, a pair of self-proclaimed ‘practically twins’ are three years younger than Taeyong and seem to be the most apprehensive at letting him into their secret, but surge forward to hug him nonetheless when Hakyeon shoots them a reassuring smile. Lisa grips him tightly a second before Bambam does the same.

Hakyeon hugs him last, a smile bright on his face as he holds him close to his chest. 

“You’re going to be so good, Tae. I just know it,” he whispers. Then he pulls away and looks at Taeyong square in the eyes, “but you can’t tell anyone apart from those friends you mentioned that already know. If anyone found out, it could ruin us.”

Taeyong nods repeatedly, “I won’t tell anyone,” he promises.

“Then, welcome to Aeternum.”

  
  
  


Taeyong practises his dancing and magic with Jungwoo and Doyoung in his bedroom, away from prying ears or seeking eyes. He passes on the knowledge he learns from his sessions with Aeternum on the nights he sneaks out of the castle, using the route Johnny showed him.

And they get better, slowly, but they do. And they are so enamored by the tales Taeyong brings them of Aeternum and their abilities that they do seldom else but practise and focus and try harder.

The soldiers are visible from Taeyong’s window when every so often they take a break to look at Johnny sparring with the other trainees, usually Jaehyun - a Lord’s son who’s almost as tall as Johnny with kind eyes and dimples but a stony expression whenever he holds a sword. And they like looking at Mark, tottering around on stubby legs cheering Johnny on whenever he makes a hit, crying when Donghyuk - a page taken in by Hyunwoo - throws grass at him.

Taeyong smiles before turning back to his friends, marvelling at the ice in a bowl that had once contained water and the once empty flower pots now inundated by mixes of different plants.

Taeyong’s own magic is something rather peculiar, or that’s what Hakyeon says, at least. The first time he’d made something happen, the entire troupe had fallen into a stunned silence, before taking awe-induced gasps at the wisps of light fluttering through the air.

And they were all confused but intrigued and Hakyeon promised he’d find out what had happened - exactly what his magic was. And when Taeyong had recounted his tale, Doyoung had sprinted off into the library to pull more books about magic from the shelves, searching for answers with an excited curiosity. Jungwoo had asked to see it, and his eyes grew wide as he gazed at the blinding white light that had sprouted from Taeyong’s fingertips, floating around his head almost aimlessly before finding a path through the air. They had settled into the torches secured on the walls, and the fires seemed to grow just that much brighter.

Hakyeon and Doyoung come to a conclusion together, with Taeyong throwing theories back and forth between them whenever he spoke to either.

They decide that Taeyong’s magic is energy. Pure energy. And they aren’t sure if he creates it or takes it from his surroundings, or exactly what he can do with it, but they know it’s powerful and unique and, by Hakyeon’s guess, comes from a passion so pure and genuine and untainted that it cannot physicalize as anything other than pure energy and life.

  
  


_ thirteen _

 

It’s a night soon after Taeyong’s thirteenth birthday, when the moon is whole and high in the sky, and the ballroom is illuminated by shafts of white light filtered in through arched windows that stretch to the ceiling, that Johnny and Taeyong decide to start creating.

And they stop regurgitating other people’s melodies and begin creating their own. Johnny’s fingers gingerly finding the next notes and twisting them into a rhythm. Taeyong hastily transcribing onto a sheet of parchment, making suggestions when the urge takes him.

And it’s messy and simple, but it’s theirs. And it’s a promise and a hope and purposeful ignorance of the world around them, and it’s everything they’ve ever wanted.

And they title it the only thing they could ever think of it as. The only thing they could ever call it:

‘Ours’

  
  


_ fourteen _

  
  


It’s a sunny day when the scandal breaks.

And, for quite some time, it’s all anyone talks about.

Taeyong is moving quickly out of his lesson room when suddenly Jungwoo is practically on top of him. And his lips are moving in words that bring horror into Taeyong’s world. And he sets off at a sprint, ignoring his teacher’s shout that ‘ _ princes don’t run; they glide!’ _ in his determination to find the people he needs. It is only when he runs, quite literally, into Doyoung that he stops. Doyoung forces him to wait, at least until nightfall before he continues his search. And Taeyong, albeit reluctantly, concedes.

But that means he has to spend the entire day suffering through whispers that slither through the court, like loose leaves blown in by violent winds.

“ _ can’t believe it.” _

_ “all this time!” _

_ "the poor prince - he really loved them, you know” _

_ “and to think, they were right here, in the heart of the castle.” _

_ “magic users - right under our noses! really makes you start to second guess everyone around you, doesn’t it?” _

_ “they won’t get many jobs now, though, will probably disband, the dirty bastards.” _

And as Taeyong moves through crowds of servants, willing his face into a neutral expression even as he clenches his teeth, he can think only of the warm smiles of those he considers family, undoubtedly scared out of their minds as their livelihoods crumble and become nothing more than fodder for the morning gossips.

  
  


When Taeyong returns that night, Doyoung and Jungwoo are waiting anxiously in his bed. The three of them observe a solemn silence as he flops himself on top of his blankets, horizontally over the two of them.

Doyoung and Jungwoo exchange a worried look as Taeyong takes in a deep breath before informing them of Aeternum who have taken refuge in a grove in some woods not too far, cloaked by magic. He tells them how they are shaken and scared, but that Hakyeon is optimistic that they can continue onwards.

And if Hakyeon is not afraid, none of them will be.

The silence overtakes them for a while, each of them unsure how to broach the question that plagues them all in the shadow of Aeternum’s near-exile.

Jungwoo breaks it.

“Would they do that to us, if they knew?”

“We don’t know,” Doyoung admits, easily for the first time, “we’ll just have to make sure they never know.”

“Just us three?”

“Just us.”

  
  


_ fifteen _

  
  


Taeyong is racing Johnny through the woods that border Ziyou on horseback when he spots him. And he brings his mare - Ruby - to a halt, letting his laugh trail off as Johnny catches up to him, not a second later.

As Johnny opens his mouth to ask Taeyong what’s wrong, Taeyong lifts a hand to point at the small boy curled up by the side of the make-shift path. His dark hair scruffy and greasy, dirt marking up and down his arms. They can’t see his face, for he has tucked it deep into his chest, but his entire body shakes in the cold and jolts periodically with what Taeyong can only assume are sobs.

Taeyong dismounts his horse quickly, beckoning Johnny to stay back and stay quiet despite his protests as he approaches the shivering form.

“Hello?” he calls out hesitantly and the boy’s head jerks up to reveal sunken skin, bruised and scarred. Eyes open and wide but filled with fear. He scrambles backwards in reflex, arms coiling around himself tighter. Though he doesn’t seem to understand, so Taeyong switches to the common tongue.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” Taeyong says, drawing to a stop to give him space and hoping his face comes across as unthreatening as he intends. “My name is Taeyong; this is my friend Johnny. What is your name? Where are you from?”

“Chenle,” the boy answers, voice hoarse and shaky, “I- I am from Ziyou.”

And Taeyong can tell that he’s not lying, for the boy’s pronunciation is accented in an unfamiliar way. He begins to walk towards him again, offering his hand carefully. The boy stares at it for a moment, so many emotions flickering through his eyes that Taeyong has trouble distinguishing any of them. His moment of contemplation seems to stretch for aeons, so long that Taeyong’s hand begins to become heavy under the scrutinisation of his dark eyes.

A brief glimmer of determination flashes across Chenle’s irises but Taeyong barely has time to register it as he grips tightly onto Taeyong’s outstretched palm and Taeyong clenches back automatically. And he doesn’t mind the dirt spreading onto his clean hands, because Chenle’s hands are dreadfully cold and his mind is fixated on warming them.

Chenle rides with Taeyong back to the castle, mumbling the same two words of gratitude into Taeyong’s back over and over as he clings to his waist. Taeyong takes him to the kitchen immediately, only pausing briefly to ask a maid to begin preparing a hot bath.

And when she answers with a short, “yes, Your Highness,” Chenle seems to recognise that word and gasps in a way that makes Taeyong giggle.

“You’re a prince?” he asks, eyes wide.

And Taeyong answers with a nod and a ruffle of the young boy’s hair.

He sits him down in the kitchens where the cook’s son, a wiry boy named Jisung, sets about pulling out pastries and stuffing Chenle with them. He also entertains him with stories of the weird food royals ask for in the dead of the night and Taeyong sees Chenle laugh for the first time. His heart fills with something akin to how he feels whenever Mark does the same - though that is hardly rare. 

And when night falls and Chenle has settled next to Jisung in his bed, Taeyong perches himself on the floor beside them. And he stops Chenle’s words of thanks with a palm in the air.

“How would you like to be my manservant, Chenle?”

Jisung’s eyes seem to increase at least thrice in size as he looks between the two of them. Chenle himself appears to have stopped breathing.

“I would love that,” he breathes out. But before he can utter another word of thanks, Taeyong cuts him off.

“You’ll show him the ropes around the castle, won’t you, Sungie? Help him with our language?”

Jisung nods excitedly and Taeyong feels that feeling in his chest again.

“Well,” Taeyong stands up, “I guess I’ll see you both in the morning, then. Jisung, thank you. Chenle, I’m happy that I met you. Goodnight, boys.”

He makes to move out of the small room when he feels a small hand circle around his wrist.

“Thank you. For saving my life,” Chenle tells him seriously, eyes boring into his. “I pledge my life to you.”

And Taeyong, struck by the sincerity in Chenle’s eyes hopes he conveys the same feeling as he dips at the waist, meeting his gaze.

“Thank you.”

  
  


_ seventeen _

  
  


Taeyong is dancing when he hears of his father’s death.

The door of the ballroom is flung open and the notes of the melody that had filled the room wither as Johnny’s fingers freeze above the keys. And the tune that would forever remain unfinished becomes the marker for the day the world changed.

 

Life passes in a blur for a short time after that.

Hakyeon is arrested and posters with the rest of Aeternum’s faces begin to decorate every tree, building, and shop in the kingdom. Because the king’s bedroom, where he was found with a dagger through his neck, reeks of magic. So when known magic user and disgraced dancer Hakyeon Cha is spotted in a village not far from the castle, there is only one logical point of action.

The Queen is ready to sentence him to death, but Taeyong stops her. He speaks loudly in court, appealing to them that Hakyeon has knowledge they could use. And his life is spared, but he is doomed to spend the rest of his life behind iron bars. Taeyong knows what iron does to magic but he cannot press for any more leniency, not through his grief and confusion.

A dagger found at the scene bearing a Ziyou royal crest stirs anger again and Taeyong’s mother, in a blind rage, declares war on their neighbouring country. She signs declarations and burns treaties before she even plans the funeral.

Their army readies themselves immediately.

Taeyong watches from his window as Jaehyun and Yuta walk onto the training grounds with steely expressions that cannot mask the tremors that rattle through their hands. They talk inaudibly to each other, each trying to crack jokes that seem childish and futile in the face of war.

War.

Donghyuck trails behind Hyunwoo, a squire who will have to walk the front lines at the age of only eleven. Because no effort can be spared and anyone with the slightest bit of training will have to partake.

The blacksmiths craft countless new weapons of iron, the only metal that might be of any use against the magic-wielding soldiers of the country to the East. And the soldiers slip them silently into their sheaths.

 

When dawn breaks, Taeyong treks into the courtyard dressed in a deep red, the third in a line of four, in front of soldiers dressed in the same shade. The Queen delivers a rousing speech. She talks of King Iseun and his greatness and kindness and the monsters that took him from them all. She reminds them of their loyalty and oaths and wishes them luck. She promises them heroism and glory.

In the brief pause the soldiers are given to bid farewell to their loved ones, Taeyong watches as Donghyuck says something undoubtedly witty to watch Mark laugh, as though that’s how he wishes to remember his friend. He watches Doyoung tell Jaehyun a curt ‘don’t die’ before stalking off and he watches fondly as a smile blooms on Jaehyun’s face. He watches Chenle and Jisung hang off of Johnny’s arms in death grips before they pull away to clutch at each other instead, unshed tears in their eyes.

Taeyong watches himself stalk around the courtyard saying his goodbyes, because his body doesn’t feel as if it is his own.

Taeyong wraps his arms around Taeil’s waist and wishes him luck. Taeil laughs heartily in that way of his that Taeyong’ll miss as he pulls away to look Taeyong in the eyes and tell him confidently, “I don’t need luck. I’ll see you soon, Tae; I promise.” 

He hugs Yuta tightly and whispers, “give them hell” in his ear when they are pressed close.

“Aye aye, Yongie, Your Highness,” Yuta shoots back, offering him a mock salute and a blinding grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He approaches Johnny last, and they stand just looking at each other for a moment, regarding each other carefully. Then Johnny surges forward and envelopes him in a bone-crushing hug that Taeyong finds himself melting into. They stay that way for as long as they can, Taeyong hating that Johnny doesn’t smell like himself, his new uniform reeking of the something far sadder.

Hyunwoo calls for the soldiers to line up and they break apart, staring.

“Come back,” Taeyong pleads, voice coming out as a barely-audible whisper.

“Anything for you, Your Highness,” Johnny says with his signature confidence, betrayed only by the slight shake of his left hand. He grips Taeyong’s hand lightly and presses a kiss to his knuckles before moving away to his position.

Taeyong watches him leave.

  
  


Taeyong returns to the ballroom that night and, for the first time ever, he is alone.

He seats himself at the grand piano, the bench feeling bigger than he remembers it ever being before. He doesn’t play for quite some time, allowing himself time to think and to mourn and not think of the future. He misses his father and, soon enough, he is sure he’ll have a new plethora of people to miss as well. He lets himself mourn those who are not yet gone as well as those who are. The world moves too fast to grieve, but, tonight, the world is still and patient as Taeyong loses himself in grief.

And he begins to play.

The music Taeyong plays that night is loud and brash. The notes are angry and discordant, painful on his ears. His fingers fly over the keys in unrestrained movement, producing something closer to chaos than music.

But it’s true.

And Taeyong permits himself this, permits himself to be raucous and forceful, to light the room only with the passion produced each time he presses a key. For he knows that, come morning, he can never allow himself this again. In the morning, he will resign himself to the prince he was always meant to be.

He will commit himself to a life of lies and a life of whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then everything changed when the fire nation attacked - it's us, we're the fire nation, we're the ones attacking
> 
> If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading!!!  
> Please validate me by leaving kudos and comments as they will encourage me to write more
> 
> If you have any questions feel free to hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/whatisanult) @whatisanult is the link doesn't work or [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/whatisanult)  
> Update will be soon, please look forward to it


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tysm for your comments on the last chapter <3  
> this is technically chapter one but ao3 hates prologues and i cba to confuse everyone with 'chapter 2: chapter 1' for the entire fic so ig were just rolling with it!
> 
> as always shoutout to my best friend caitlin for proofreading this ly xx
> 
> the actual plots starting now, so please enjoy
> 
> cue: coming home by jjp

Taeyong kept his eyes fixed on the castle gates and his chin high, apprehension thrumming violently through his veins. He schooled his face into something nonchalant but not cold as his armies filed into the courtyard. The sky was tinged with a light grey, thick with clouds as the soldiers who remained returned home. The lines on their troops’ faces were heavy with weariness and exhaustion but light with something like relief.

And though his eyes never strayed from a fixed position just above his people’s heads, he could see his family from the corner of his eyes. Each of them was perched on a different stone step leading into the castle, his mother at the top and in the centre. Her robes of deep blue - an olive branch of peace - cascaded gracefully to the floor and pooled at her feet, like a still lake as she remained motionless.

Taeyong was dressed in a lighter shade of the same colour, a silk shirt tucked smartly into a pair of darker leather trousers. His hair was styled away from his face, to give him a higher sense of regality, importance. His hands met behind his back and he resisted the urge to fiddle around with his fingers despite the fact that they were effectively hidden from sight. He didn’t know who might see. He didn’t know who might discover how nervous he was.

Joohyun stood a step below their mother, hair pulled back into a series of complicated traditional Meridianam braids, poised elegantly atop her head and an expression on her face that Taeyong was sure matched his own. Her arm was linked tightly with her husband, Jinyoung, who stood to her right. His robes matched hers in colour and style, specifically the green pin near their collarbones in honour of Jinyoung’s own country, Occidens.

They had left a step empty between Taeyong and his sister. Taeil was among the soldiers returning, and would take up his place soon enough.

Mark’s expression was not as carefully crafted, anxiety clearly lining his features and eyes scanning desperately through the crowd for familiar faces. His leather boot tapped persistently against the step below Taeyong and Taeyong tried to  _ somehow _ communicate for him to stop, an entirely futile act. 

Doyoung and Jungwoo stood tall on the bottom step, sporting the rich purple of the Royal Scholars, the same colour as those who stood around them. Doyoung’s face seemed effortlessly neutral as what someone else could have easily mistaken as unseeing eyes gazed out into the crowd around him. But Taeyong knew better, knew that he was scrutinising each face with incredible detail. There was something different about Jungwoo’s expression, something like fear and something else lurking deep in his eyes that even Taeyong could not discern, even having known Jungwoo for as long as he had.

Taeyong watched, as subtly as possible, when Hyunwoo marched through the centre of the courtyard, through the legions of soldiers who were lined up on either side of him. He was flanked by a boy Taeyong could barely recognise without his signature smirk upon his face.

He heard Mark’s foot stop tapping.

Donghyuck had definitely grown, his hair shorter than Taeyong remembered and his face far less like a child’s than it should have been. Taeyong felt something painful twist in his gut.

As Taeyong’s eyes drifted over to the man standing on Hyunwoo’s other side, he felt his heart lurch so vehemently he was half sure it would come out of his chest. He tried to pull it back, but only succeeded in subduing it into a frenzied series of uneven beats as he stared at Johnny.

Johnny. He was here. He had survived.

He was even taller, his head reaching almost as high as Hyunwoo's and he had gained considerably more muscle, defined arms swinging slightly at his sides as he moved. There was something different in the way he carried himself, long legs allowing for powerful strides as he scoured the length of the courtyard. The old him was still there, barely, but Taeyong clung to the thread to the past that was evident in the way his eyes flickered momentarily to where Taeyong stood and his eyes softened the slightest bit before he faced his queen, eyes steely.

The three of them dropped to their knees as they reached the bottom of the stairs and the rest of the crowd mimicked them, falling in a swift, synchronised motion, heads down.

Taeil rode in, the only person allowed a horse for the welcome, despite everybody who stood in the courtyard being a member of the cavalry. The foot soldiers would not have fit for sheer number, and most had returned to their homes already. He dismounted easily, Jaemin taking his horse and leading the mare dutifully back to the stables with practised ease. Taeil ascended the steps, bowing before their mother and kissing the back of the hand she offered him before taking his place on the empty step.

He filled in the empty space easily, hands falling to his sides and expression no different than any of the siblings’.

The soldiers arose when Hyunwoo did and he moved to the side of the steps.

Fanfare sounded in an unfamiliar tune, something distinctly not of this country, and Taeyong found his hands gripping at each other tightly, before he quickly loosened them again.

Soldiers dressed in a foreign uniform of orange and red, with metal helmets and plated armour trecked dutifully into the courtyard, standing guard around a large, intricately designed carriage. The carriage was ornate, gold, and decorated with carved pictures of dragons winding themselves elegantly around trees and flowers Taeyong did not recognise.

The soldier in front - whom Taeyong knew to be Wong Kunhang, their captain of the guard - was a man with dark hair, a long face, and deep-set eyes. He barked something out in their language and their procession halted, a tiny patch of gold and orange in a sea of red.

Another soldier moved swiftly to the carriage’s door and opened it. Steps fell from the doorway to the ground and three men exited.

Their clothes were unlike those of Taeyong and his family. They had long, hanging sleeves and no buttons or clasps but rather their robes folded neatly across their chests and were secured with sashes, each in varying shades of blue. The colours weren’t dissimilar to Taeyong’s own, but were adorned with thin golden thread lining their seems and running into detailed patterns of their family’s crest along their necklines.

Taeyong watched their movements carefully, ensuring his analysation did not show on his face. They moved in the same way he did - the same way all royals and highborn did - with feet barely grazing the ground and heads angled so that they would always be looking down their noses at everyone.

The eldest, Kun, had a face that declared him immediately as a leader. His features were sullen but handsome on tanned skin, an expression close to Taeyong’s own marring them. His eyes were dark and serious, staring at a spot just above the Queen’s head as he approached the steps with his siblings in tow.

To his left stood his brother, Yukhei, considerably taller than Kun. He had less grace in his steps, though that would have been entirely undetectable had his brother not been directly next to him and had Taeyong not been Taeyong. His face seemed to be pulled into a neutral expression with far more difficulty than his elder brother’s, and something about it made it seem as though the silence across the courtyard was unsettling to him. His eyes appraised Taeyong and his family with little subtlety about it, but it was not a lack of control that allowed his scrutinisation to be visible, but rather a lack of concern for people knowing about it. There was a definite sense of unabashedness about his gaze.

And, on Kun’s right, was the youngest son of the Ziyou royal family: Yangyang. His hair was curly, something vaguely childish about his demeanour that Taeyong did not expect - even if the boy was a year younger than Mark. His nose was long and straight down the centre of his face, and it twitched slightly with a suppressed sneeze as he climbed the stairs behind his brother.

Taeyong felt amusement rise in his chest but pushed it down firmly.

As they reached the top of the steps, they bowed in unison, dipping at the waist on the step below Taeyong’s mother.

“Today, we welcome past enemies as tentative friends,” the Queen spoke to Kun, looking him in the eye, but loudly enough for it to echo through the courtyard. “We welcome an end to a long war and we welcome peace. We welcome His Highness, Crown Prince Kun of Ziyou as well as his two younger brothers and a selected, trusted committee of politicians to work with us to bring about a new age of peace.”

And it was only because Taeyong knew his mother as well as he did, did he notice the underlying distaste when she said the word  _ trusted _ .

“We welcome you into our country and into our home in the hopes of creating a tomorrow brighter than yesterday. And we invite you to join us in celebrating the end of fighting at a feast this evening.”

Taeyong saw, just in his peripheral, a strange emotion flicker through Jungwoo’s irises as he eyed the Ziyou from below.

“Thank you kindly, Your Majesty, for your hospitality and graciousness. My siblings, my people, and I look forward to attending,” Kun replied, and Taeyong could not detect anything but sincerity in his tone.

The Queen inclined her head the smallest angle before turning away from the Crown Prince, and Taeyong knew looking at the Ziyou had begun to become too much for her. She beckoned forth a cluster of servants who had remained so far out of sight, as all servants were taught to do.

“Please show our guests to their chambers and take care of their luggage. I am sure they wish to rest after such a tiring journey.”

The three Ziyou princes thanked her with genuine words, bowing slightly before following two of the servants, while the rest moved to the carriage to retrieve large trunks and gather the Ziyou soldiers, leading them briskly into the castle.

The courtyard remained in silence for a full minute after the Ziyou had disappeared into the palace before the Queen began to speak once more, this time happier and the distinct sound of pride filtering through her words.

“Welcome home, brave soldiers,” she declared and the troops let out a triumphant yell in response. Taeyong let a smile break out on his face a second after Johnny did. “Your fight has been long, but courageous and valiant. You are commended greatly and thanked sincerely by the crown for your service. Please, rest, greet your loved ones and tell them of your victories before returning this evening for a feast in the grand hall with free ale and food for all.”

The soldiers cheered again before Hyunwoo began a chant of  _ “long live the Queen” _ which Taeyong joined, speaking evenly but with genuity behind his words as the crowds roared below him.

 

“And so it starts,” Jungwoo said from where he hung off the end of Taeyong’s bed.

“Do you really have to make it so dramatic?” Doyoung whined, sat upright next to him.

Taeyong eyed them both with amusement from the chair at his desk, fingers deftly unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt so he could breathe more easily. His hand then moved to his armrest so he could tap lightly at the polished wood, a grounding motion as he thought.

“He’s not entirely wrong though,” Taeyong said, a brief smile gracing his lips when Doyoung looked at him in betrayal. “War strategising is one thing; negotiation is one far different.”

“The threat is now in our own court, not on far removed battlegrounds,” Jungwoo agreed solemnly.

Taeyong frowned. “The threat has always been in our own court, Jungwoo. You of all people should not forget that. There are very few that can be trusted and I am sure they will stop at nothing to derail these peace talks. Whether their plan is to benefit Ziyou or for their own personal gain, we can not permit it to happen. We must remain in control of our court.”

The two nodded in unison, a sombre, grave movement.

“An end-of-war celebration seems kind of ironic, does it not?” Jungwoo said, grim mirth dancing in his eyes. “When here we are, preparing for weeks of careful, thoughtful speech disguised as quick wit?”

“As though you have any hope in achieving either careful thought or quick wit,” Doyoung said dryly: an obvious attempt to reconcile the tense atmosphere. Taeyong rewarded him by allowing himself a small chuckle.

The door swung open and the ‘Dreamies’ - so named after a poem Jeno had found about a legion of elves who spied on and manipulated people by infiltrating their dreams - bar Jisung entered. Renjun looked up and down the corridor to ensure it was empty before he locked the door behind them, throwing the key to Taeyong swiftly before joining the others on the floor.

“Sungie’s busy helping out in the kitchens. It’s so hectic down there and his mother keeps shouting at everyone. He didn’t have anything to report, though - I asked. Though he did say that if they slaughter any more chickens for the feast tonight, he’s convinced the kingdom won’t have any left,” Chenle reported.

Doyoung snorted and Taeyong felt the corners of his lips twitch up involuntarily.

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting him to be able to escape. They are cooking for a great many people this evening, after all. Speaking of which, I plan to use this feast to gain some deeper understanding of our Ziyou visitors. From what I learned this afternoon in the courtyard, Yukhei seems rather proud. Jungwoo if you could speak with him, stroke his ego if you must. He is no doubt intelligent, but see if you can’t get him spilling secrets. He seems too trusting. And you are, by far, the most trustworthy of us, and very good at getting what you want.”

Jungwoo flashed him a flattered smile, though there was still a semblance of that strange emotion in his eyes. Taeyong attributed it to nerves, as he felt those himself.

“Doyoung, speak with Yangyang, just to gather information on his character. Do try to seem interested in what he has to say, remember we are trying to bring peace. The Ziyou are no longer our enemies, but we must still treat them with caution.”

“You treat everyone as an enemy, Tae,” Doyoung said. “Whether within reason or not. It’s paranoia.”

“That paranoia is what ensured the entire royal family survived a five-year war, Doyoung,” Taeyong shot back, eyes locking firmly with his friend’s, irritation seeping through his gaze. They held each other’s gaze for a moment until Jungwoo cleared his throat and shot them both pointed looks. Jeno glanced between the three of them worriedly.

Taeyong looked away first with a sigh, fingers rubbing at his temples at Doyoung’s stubbornness, exhausted because at a fight they’d had one too many times. He turned away from Doyoung’s knowing gaze.

“I’m going out tonight,” he declared suddenly, ignoring the way Doyoung and Jungwoo looked at him in confused disbelief.

“On the first night before the peace talks begin? Are you joking?” Doyoung asked, incredulous. “I doubt you’ll be able to leave the feast early enough to get sleep when you return. And everyone is going to be on edge - you won’t be able to sneak away; I guarantee it.”

“Well, I think I’ll be fine. I have been for the past five years.”

“We weren’t housing our enemies for the last five years, Taeyong,” Doyoung argued, exasperation clear in his voice. “Are you really so desperate to see them that you’d be this reckless? Are you really that selfish?”

“This is the only opportunity I’ll have for months, Doyoung,” Taeyong said, voice steady in faux calmness. “I have to take it or I don’t think I’ll be able to bear the Whisper Court and the courting ball and the constant pretence and the politics. Let me have a night off, please.”

Taeyong met Doyoung’s eyes once again, and watched with well-hidden triumph as something like pity rippled through them. And though most people would reject pity, afraid of being looked down on, Taeyong had long learned what an advantage being underestimated was.

Doyoung’s eyes seemed to search his and Taeyong saw an internal battle wage in the scholar’s mind before he relented.

“Fine,” he said grumpily. “But be careful.”

“When am I not?” Taeyong said wryly. “Paranoia, remember?”

Doyoung shot him a sardonic smile before huffing and crossing his arms across his chest.

Taeyong turned his attention to the boy sat with his back perfectly straight and a perfectly neutral expression watching the exchange without the slightest tell that he cared about what was being said. But Taeyong knew better.

Taeyong offered Renjun a kind smile, though he knew his countenance meant nothing to this group of people, who knew he architected each one meticulously.

Renjun nodded in acknowledgement and said, “I’ll follow you out when you leave the feast. No one will notice I’m gone.”

Taeyong nodded in appreciation as Jaemin began to speak and everyone turned their attention to the stable boy.

“When I was helping the soldiers return their horses to the stables earlier, I overheard something, and I’m sure it will be announced soon, but I thought you’d like to know.”

He continued when Taeyong nodded in encouragement.

“Hyunwoo was talking to Sunmi. He was saying about how he’s getting old and how the war took too much out of him and he doesn’t think he’s in a fit condition to lead the army anymore. He said he’s going to step down as Captain of the Guard.”

An inaudible gasp of shock seemed to pass through the occupants of the room simultaneously. Hyunwoo had had the same position since before Taeyong had been born, the notion of him as anything but the gentle but rigorous captain training and leading the soldiers of Meridianam seemed foreign.

“And that’s not even the most surprising thing,” Jaemin continued, speaking quickly. “I also heard who he plans on recommending to replace him, should the Queen and council agree.”

Jaemin looked excitedly around the room, pausing momentarily for added theatricality.

“Johnny!” Jaemin declared, looking happy. “Johnny’s going to be the next Captain of the Guard. Isn’t that fantastic! He fought tremendously during the war, as we all know.”

And they did. Rarely, when the war was ongoing, had there been a week without a rumour detailing some kind of daring deed performed by Johnny in the midst of battle. The tales flit around the castle like a warm draft of wind. And each one had made Taeyong’s chest burn with a special kind of pride he could not voice.

“And we know he would never betray us, because we  _ know _ him,” Jaemin finished proudly. And when Taeyong glanced around the faces of those in the room, he found similar contented expressions on each of their faces - expressions which seemed to perfectly mimic the feeling pooling in his lungs. Besides Doyoung, who was giving him a knowing look.

Taeyong averted his eyes.

“Thank you, Jaemin. That is, certainly, good news.”

He took a deep breath to ground himself, pull his mind away from his thoughts of Johnny, the new  _ Captain of the Guard _ .  _ Johnny.  _ And focus his mind on matters more important, matters requiring more thought.

“Chenle, Renjun, as the only two people in the court able to communicate with the Ziyou in their own language, I have convinced my mother that you two should act as their personal servants for the duration of their time here, in an effort to make them feel more at home.”

“And to spy on them and uncover their secrets?”

“Well, of course.” Taeyong let a lopsided smile flit over his face. “That goes without saying.”

“It will be done, Your Highness,” Renjun said seriously as ever, eyes as dark as they had always been.

Renjun reached his hand out for the key and Taeyong gave it to him. The young boy bowed somewhat stiffly before exiting the room in a quick motion, ignoring Chenle who called out for him to wait up before directing a rushed bow at Taeyong and running out after his friend.

“Jeno, Jaemin,” Taeyong said, turning to the boys who looked up to him eagerly, “keep doing what you usually do, notify me if anyone says anything, don’t draw attention to yourselves, and stay alert.”

The two boys nodded before getting to their feet, bowing and exiting the room, returning to the stables and library respectively.

Taeyong rubbed his fingers to his temples again as the door shut firmly behind them. The three friends sat in silence for a few moments as Taeyong tried to organise his thoughts.

“You truly believe that the Ziyou are to be trusted?” Jungwoo asked hesitantly. “They did kill your father. They started the war and cost us a great deal.”

“That was never proved,” Taeyong said. “The evidence was circumstantial. Hakyeon was also charged for the murder of my father, and we know he did not kill him. I shall draw my conclusions based on tonight’s feast and the next month’s peace talks." And then he added, in a smaller voice,"besides, we can not afford another war. That would ruin our country; we barely made it out of this one.”

Silence swallowed the room again. Taeyong was grateful for it, some inane pounding going on inside his head.

“So...” Of course Doyoung had to break it. “Johnny’s back.”

“So is Jaehyun,” Taeyong shot back immediately.

Jungwoo laughed loudly as Doyoung spluttered and Taeyong felt his headache dissipate somehow. He joined Jungwoo in laughing, surprising himself with how genuine it was. And before long, Doyoung had joined as well. And the large chamber was filled with laughter.

 

Johnny’s sword swung into Jaehyun’s with a loud  _ clang _ that ran through the empty training grounds. The other soldiers had gone to see their loved ones before attending the feast, but for people like Johnny and Jaehyun whose loved ones were those who had walked the front lines with them, there was not much to do.

Johnny pulled his sword back, bringing it down and driving it upwards to hit Jaehyun from below. Jaehyun caught the blow easily with his own sword, flashing Johnny a taunting smile. Johnny reflected it on his own face, using his left hand to grab over Jaehyun’s where they gripped his hilt. He pulled his hand sideways, taking Jaehyun’s sword with him before thrusting his sword horizontally into Jaehyun’s torso, stopping just before he touched the chainmail there.

Jaehyun let out an annoyed growl and Johnny smiled sweetly at him,

“Better luck next time, Jung,” he mocked.

They broke apart, both breathing heavily. Johnny tossed his sword to the ground, looking around for a familiar head of light brown hair.

“Where’s Donghyuck?” he panted.

“Mark came to see him then they both ran off somewhere.”

Johnny felt something akin to disappointment swim in his gut.

“What’s with that face?” Jaehyun asked, and Johnny was quick to control his expression, but the damage had been done. “Are you sad that  _ your  _ prince hasn’t come to see you?”

Johnny tried to deny it but found his tongue couldn’t form the words. His silence must have been very telling.

“He’s probably busy, Johnny. Or he’s as anxious about seeing you again as you are about seeing him.”

“I’m not anxious,” Johnny said, defensive, “I want to see him - it’s all I’ve been thinking about since we started coming home.”

“I know,” Jaehyun said wryly.

Johnny sent him a caustic smile before continuing, “It’s just… what if he’s changed? What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

“Okay well, I can answer that for you. He’s definitely changed. It’s been five years and there’s been a fucking war. You’ve changed Johnny. We all have. If you come out of that unchanged, there’s something wrong with you. But he’s still him and you’re still you. You’ll be fine.”

“When did you become so wise?” Johnny said, but he could feel a smile break through his face.

“Since  _ I _ spent our entire journey back thinking about how much I’m going to have to change my ‘woo Doyoung’ plan to account for a five-year separation.”

“Still on that, huh?”

“He does like me - Jungwoo told me that he just has weird ways of showing it,” Jaehyun said, though there was still the slightest glimmer of uncertainty in his voice.

“And Jungwoo’s always right,” Johnny said reassuringly.

Jaehyun smiled gratefully.

“Yeah. Jungwoo’s always right.”

They undressed as the sun set. Taking off their armour and leaving it in a pile. Johnny hastily scribbled a note to Donghyuck for him to wash and polish it whenever he’d finished catching up with the youngest prince. He and Jaehyun hung their weapons in the armoury carefully, both stepping back to admire their weapons: forged in the heart of Meridianam and returned home at last.

They changed into clothes far more formal than they would usually wear. Garments that would be acceptable at a royal feast. Johnny used a polished broadsword as a mirror, ensuring his thin white shirt was tucked entirely into his leather trousers before throwing a jacket woven with red thread - a piece given to higher ranking soldiers - over his shoulders. He pushed a hand through his hair in an attempt to keep it back from his face, but the strands fell loosely onto his forehead anyway so he gave up with a huff.

Just as he was lacing his boots, he heard Jaehyun let out a noise of surprise and turned his head to look at him.

“Looks like you really didn’t have to be anxious after all.”

Johnny followed his line of sight and was overtaken with shock when he saw Taeyong approaching the armoury, walking gracefully across the stone path that cut through the neat sections of grass. Johnny’s fingers fumbled clumsily with the laces of his boot in his hurry to do them up and irritation ran through him as he failed to secure them, repeatedly.

Taeyong was alone, unusual for a prince who was typically accompanied by his manservant, at the very least and something in Johnny’s heart constricted when he thought of possible reasons why.  _ He wants to see you. _ He finally succeeded with his shoes and pushed himself to his feet, almost tripping over himself as he did so.

Jaehyun sniggered but Johnny ignored him, eyes trained only on the prince who had come to see  _ him _ . 

Taeyong had grown impossibly more beautiful. His face was carved with a solid jawline, but his features were soft and delicate. Johnny swallowed his nerves, taking in the perfect mixture of contradictions that was Taeyong’s face. It was impossible to look like that. To be so small and thin but carry an unmistakable aura of power and regality.

He was dressed in a similar fashion as he had been that morning, when Johnny had allowed himself just the smallest glance at his figure stood on those steps and had found himself breathless nonetheless. Though now, a heavy cloak in night blue hung from his shoulders, and Johnny was sure it was too hot to be wearing something like that, but Taeyong’s face displayed no discomfort. He was also wearing his crown, several thin strips of gold entwined through each other sitting above his dark hair, styled with not a single strand out of place, framing his face perfectly.

It was the crown of a third prince. One made to exude prettiness rather than power and Johnny felt distaste arise in his chest. Yet, Taeyong still managed to radiate both. A flawless union of beauty and danger that made Johnny swell with pride.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Johnny registered Jaehyun leaving the armoury as Taeyong got closer.

Johnny stood still, waiting. Taeyong drew to a stop a few steps in front of him and their eyes met.

A shiver ran through Johnny’s blood.

Those were Taeyong’s eyes - the same eyes he had gazed into for nine years, the eyes he had pictured amongst the stars as he watched the sky at night. They were wide and brown, and just how Johnny remembered them.

But they were  _ wrong _ .

Where Taeyong’s eyes had previously been nothing but warm and welcoming, they were infused with coldness. Where they had been filled with emotion, they were unreadable, closed off. Where they had been kind, there was something not cruel, but distinctly apathetic about them. And, upon close inspection not distracted by his beauty, that same sentiment marked all of his face.

Something in Johnny’s stomach dropped. He compelled himself to ignore it, to place the blame on a fearful delusion, a trick of the light.

“Johnny,” Taeyong said.

And it was the first thing Johnny had heard him say in five years. And it was his name. And that alone could oust any trepidation Johnny had felt. Because his voice, while deeper than Johnny remembered, was still the same. It was a little breathy from his walk across the grounds, but far more open, far more vulnerable than the look on his face had been. He had let affection seep across his tone and Johnny rejoiced at the thought.

“Taeyong,” he said, allowing his own devotion to be heard in like.

A smile broke out on Taeyong’s face, but it looked strange, unhappy.

He whipped his head around the area quickly, searching for something but Johnny did not know what. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its tenderness. Instead, it was fast, rushed speech uttered in a hushed whisper that Johnny had to strain his ears to hear.

“Don’t let your guard down. Don’t think the war is over because it’s not. Please, don’t get complacent; don’t think that we are safe just because you’re home. Remember that someone is always listening.” Taeyong’s eyes flit around again. “And don’t think that Ziyou is the only enemy - or even an enemy at all.”

Taeyong did not give him time to order his thoughts before he was looking deep into Johnny’s eyes and, though Johnny knew it was inappropriate, he still revelled in the concern there.

“Please, stay safe, Johnny.”

And then he was gone, stalking off back to the castle, his confidence returned to each of his steps. Johnny watched him leave with something in his chest telling him to call out his name, ask him to explain himself, implore him to stop acting so strangely. But the look in Taeyong’s eyes, the fear with which he had looked around kept his mouth shut. There had been finality in the way Taeyong had said his name, and he had not liked it. It unsettled him, sat wrong in his gut.

“So,” Jaehyun said, emerging from wherever he had disappeared to, a teasing lilt to his voice “what did Princey say?”

“I don’t know,” Johnny said, because he really didn’t. “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol okay so i know ive only written two chapters but im going on hiatus :( because i have exams starting monday that dont finish until mid june so i wont have time to write :((
> 
> also joohyunxjinyoung isnt acc something i ship but i couldnt physically imagine a world where royalty exists and jinyoung is not a prince so... yeah
> 
> but tysm for reading if youve made it this far and i hope youll stick around for the next chapter (even if that will be a while im so sorry)  
> please validate me by leaving comments and kudos
> 
> i will still be active on twitter though so feel free to come scream about stuff with me 
> 
>  
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whatisanult)  
> [CC](https://curiouscat.me/whatisanult)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand shes back!! finally!!
> 
> as always the biggest thanks to caitlin for proofreading this for me <3
> 
> thank you for being patient with this chapter and i really hope it was worth the wait

Taeyong walked up a stone staircase in the southern wing of the castle, still a little breathless from his long trek across the grounds but refusing to let it be evident in his demeanour. Regret stung bitterly in the back of his mind, alongside the distinct feeling of being watched that he could not shake - hadn’t been able to shake for quite some years now.

He kept his thoughts focused on regulating his breathing, keeping his steps steady and graceful whilst he was still visible.

A servant walking in the opposite direction to him stopped and bowed, pausing until he had passed. Taeyong offered her a short nod and polite smile but didn’t meet her eyes.

He waited until her footsteps had faded before he shot a quick look over his shoulder and, upon finding the corridor empty, turned quickly into a concealed alcove.

The alcove was one of many hiding places littered about the castle. Small, tiny things whose existence was only known to the royal family themselves and Taeyong’s most trusted in the court. Some led to winding passageways and others led to perilous falls. They were the castle’s own protection against threats; a secret map passed down generations by whispers.

Taeyong let his back hit the solid wall and leant the majority of his weight against the cold stone. He let heaving breaths overtake his body as he struggled to take in air. The silk of his shirt stuck unpleasantly to his skin and his cloak felt heavy on his shoulders. His crown dug painfully into the back of his head, but he paid it no notice.

His mind was still reeling from his brief meeting with Johnny and it seemed that his heart could not quite cope.

Taeyong’s decision to go and see him had been entirely driven by instinct. It had been irrational and emotional and Taeyong had only quite realised where he was when he was already halfway across the training grounds. It had been careless, to say something that truthful in such an exposed environment.

But all the lessons in the world would not have been able to stop Taeyong from wanting to keep Johnny safe.

It was unwise of him, to let himself be that close to the man who made years of practice of taming his emotions wholly irrelevant, but Taeyong found that he could not help himself. Gazing at a distance from the top of the steps in the courtyard was too straining.

So Taeyong had given in to the desire clawing at his gut to go and see him in person, had given in to the selfish urges he had tried so hard to extinguish.

It had been a mistake.

Taeyong knew that - had known that from the moment he looked into Johnny’s eyes and seen nothing but raw emotion there, emotion he could not reflect in his own. And he had felt his own heart crack when clear dismay had struck across him.

Johnny, the boy who had never even tried to conceal his emotions and Taeyong, the prince who had to.

The bitterness rose up in his chest once more.

Johnny’s presence ripped away at Taeyong’s carefully constructed façade, revealed something too sincere to be safe. Johnny’s presence was both a welcoming tenderness and a horrible regression to a past Taeyong had tried to abandon. And Taeyong could not allow himself to indulge in it.

He closed his eyes and allowed a moment to pass as he banished the picture of Johnny still in his mind and collected himself.

Only when his breaths fell evenly and his mind was clear of everything but logic and rational thought, removed deliberately from anything emotional, did he prise himself off of the wall.

He swayed slightly on his feet.

His hands moved to adjust his clothing, pulling the fabrics meticulously so that the creases lay in the correct places. He pulled individual strands of hair into place from where they had strayed and helped his crown to balance delicately atop of his head.

Taeyong schooled his face into something friendly, unintimidating. He inhaled deeply and moved swiftly out of the alcove, settling into a more leisurely pace as he descended the staircase that allowed him a short-cut to the main hall.

Chatter grew louder as he drew closer, and an upbeat tune began to filter through the air.

He entered through a back door of the hall and settled easily into the empty seat between Kun and Mark.

The largest, golden chair in the centre of his table and, thusly, their plates, remained empty as they waited for the Queen to join them. Mark gave Taeyong a bright smile, and Taeyong reached over to gently ruffle his hair before turning back to the expanse of the hall.

There were more tables crammed into the space than Taeyong had ever seen, and each one was filled with soldiers, talking excitedly amongst themselves. Taeyong frowned slightly when he saw the clear divide between red and orange uniforms, though he supposed that that was to have been expected.

The room was bathed in a warm yellow, firelight mixing with the beams of the setting sun to reflect off of the pale purple walls. It was their largest and most ostentatious hall, inundated with wall carvings and paintings of past monarchs, but that had been a purposeful choice when Taeyong had suggested it.

Chenle and Renjun lurked surreptitiously behind them, pressed against the wall. Chenle’s face was as agreeable as ever, a childish smile plastered across it. But Renjun’s, whilst neutral, seemed distinctly disturbed and somewhat  _ off.  _ Taeyong felt alarm flash in his gut.

He met Renjun’s eyes briefly. Enough time for him to push his eyebrows slightly together in a silent question and Renjun to respond with a tiny, almost undetectable, shake of his head.

Taeyong looked away.

Yunho, the court’s steward, entered through the same door as Taeyong had and rapped his cane against the polished wood of the floor twice. Silence fell immediately throughout the hall.

“All rise for the Her Royal Highness Queen Taeyeon of Meridianam,” he barked.

Taeyong, along with everyone else, followed the instruction and rose to his feet.

His mother entered, moving with a grace she had never been taught. She smiled thankfully when a servant pulled out her large chair for her, but she did not sit down.

“Please, sit,” she addressed to the hall, her lilting voice carrying only the barest hint of a command. “I am delighted to welcome our guests into our kingdom and our own soldiers home, at long last.”

She paused when the Meridianam soldiers let out a brief cheer and the smile on her face grew to something a little more genuine.

“I offer my gratitude to our cooks who have worked tirelessly to prepare a wonderful meal and I offer my condolences to our staff who will have to clean up the hall after us.”

Another pause to allow for laughter.

“I hope that tonight will mark the beginning of new friendships for royalty and soldiers alike, that we will dine and make conversation without being held back by the past. I hope that we will forgo enmity for compassion.”

Taeyong listened attentively to his mother, mentally tracing out the words he had helped to write.

“In a gesture of good faith, I call forth our Captain of the Guard, Hyunwoo Son, to be the first to put his iron blade to the fire and hence show our esteemed guests that we wish for no more fighting.”

As she spoke, Hyunwoo rose from where he sat at one of the higher tables and unsheathed his sword, making his way towards the large fireplace at the edge of the hall. Taeyong saw surprise overtake Kun’s face, before he replaced it with an amicable smile, looking almost touched.

Hyunwoo dropped his sword into the fire with little grace, and Taeyong knew that he had missed his family damascus steel sword that he had been forced to discard in favour for one with an iron coating. The blade turned white before it began to bend and curl. It melted down as applause sounded and Hyunwoo offered a bow in the general direction of the royals before returning to his seat.

“I ask all of our soldiers to do the same before the night is over and, in return,” the Queen turned to address Kun directly now, “I ask our guests to obey our laws and refrain from using magic whilst within our kingdom.”

Kun nodded.

“Thank you for your consideration, Your Majesty,” he said. “I assure you that my people will uphold your wishes, as we also yearn for friendship.”

They shared a smile, Kun’s sincere and his mother’s only slightly strained.

“And now,” she turned back to face the hall, “let us commence the feast.”

Cheers broke out as servants began to file through the doors, delivering platters of various foods. Jisung placed a large plate of chicken and venison on the table in front of Taeyong and returned Taeyong’s small smile with a tired one of his own.

Servers filled their glasses with red wine from their country’s most famous vineyard and Taeyong made a point of placing his hand over the top of Mark’s chalice when one tried to pour him some.

“Water for him, please.”

Mark let out a petulant whine and Taeyong heard a chuckle from beside him. Inwardly, he smirked before turning to face Kun, a charming smile spreading over his lips.

“We may be celebrating, but I trust my younger brother with alcohol no more than I trust a duck with a battleaxe,” Taeyong said, voice purposefully blithe.

Kun laughed loudly.

“I understand you, Your Highness. The day I let Yangyang drink even a sip of wine is the day I officially step down as Crown Prince, for I have no hope of controlling him.”

Taeyong felt a pleasant giggle escape him, surprised that it was somewhat genuine.

“Ah, I see that the pains of younger brothers are universal.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Kun raised his glass and Taeyong met it with his own, taking a tiny sip of wine. He could not allow himself to lose control, tonight was too important. Kun eyed his throat with something strange in his eyes before setting his glass down.

Taeyong gestured for him to take his food first and Kun smiled gratefully, lifting a decently sized portion onto his plate with easy movements. When he had finished, Taeyong took food of his own, considerably less than Kun had - one of his very first lessons had taught him that eating too much was unappealing.

Kun looked at his plate with that same look in his eyes.

“How has your time in Meridianam been so far, My Lord?”

“Incredibly welcoming, thank you. And, please, just call me Kun. If we are to eat at the same table and drink the same wine, it is my belief that formalities are unnecessary. Let us strive for earnest, personal friendship rather than prescribed procedure.”

Taeyong was nonplussed for a moment, taken aback by the genuine tone to Kun’s words, the hesitant yet hopeful look to his eye. This wasn’t a trick, some tactic to get Taeyong to drop his guard as it had been with so many lords and politicians before. It was strange.

“To earnest, personal friendship,” Taeyong parroted, inclining his head.

A hollow promise, as the majority of Taeyong’s were.

 

Johnny stuffed an entire chicken leg into his mouth, chewing it almost violently.

Jaehyun opened his mouth as though to say something, but closed it again. He settled for shooting Johnny a judging look from where he sat opposite him. Yuta was in a similar state to Johnny, mouth opening and closing rapidly as he devoured various pieces of meat. Hyuna, much like Jaehyun, eyed him with stark distaste.

But Johnny could not find it in himself to care as his eyes strayed periodically towards Taeyong, sat at the head table and engaged in some apparently hilarious conversation with the crown prince of Ziyou.

He chewed harder at the chicken.

Rejection and confusion pooled together in his chest, resulting in some ugly emotion he might have classed as jealousy, had he not been far too above feeling such a petty emotion.

But the eviscerated chicken in his mouth seemed to think differently.

He didn’t like the negativity he was feeling. This was his celebration, his welcome home after five years of arduous fighting and grief and agony but it felt dull, dampened by his meeting with Taeyong. He had sworn to live for all those he lost, had rejoiced upon the end of the war, but his home felt foreign now.

It was disconcerting, feeling like a stranger in the place in which you had grown up.

“Woah, you guys really do not hold back,” a voice sounded in the common tongue, accented in an unfamiliar way. Kunhang Wong slid to sit next to Jaehyun, a smirk on his face. “I like that.”

His appearance was sudden, breaking through the pre-established separation between the soldiers. His orange uniform, adorned with a golden medal that marked him as captain, breached the orderly row of red uniforms as he reached to grab a plate.

He began to shovel food into his mouth with a fervour that could rival Yuta’s.

“John Seo, right?” Kunhang asked around a mouthful of potatoes, mischievous smirk widening when Johnny nodded. “Heard a lot about you over the last five years. Gave our troops quite a lot of grief, you know? Bit sad I never got a go at you myself.”

Johnny could feel the shock spread across his friends at Kunhang’s reference to the war. There had, he thought, been some sort of unspoken agreement against mentioning the thing that had caused animosity and torment on both sides.

_ Don’t think Ziyou are the only enemy - or even an enemy at all. _

Perhaps this was better, Johnny thought, to acknowledge the past rather than ignore it. To actually reconcile and make those new friendships the Queen was encouraging. It was against his instinct that he tried to forget how Kunhang had most likely been responsible for the deaths of many of his friends, just as Kunhang had most likely had to do the same when he’d approached them. If Taeyong could converse with the people responsible for killing his father, surely this couldn’t be so difficult.

Johnny let a grin break out on his face when he replied, “doesn’t mean you’ve lost your chance. If I had a glove, I’d throw it.”

Kunhang laughed, bright and unabashed. Johnny and Jaehyun joined in easily.

“I’ll take you up on that.” He picked Johnny’s glass up and took a gulp from it, sighing in bliss as he did so. “Your wine here is excellent,” he said, leaning in closer to Johnny as though sharing a secret. “Back home all we have is baijiu and, let me tell you, that is a nasty drink. Delicious, but only if you enjoy pain.”

Johnny laughed loudly and Kunhang seemed satisfied, leaning back and sipping more wine.

 

The evening wound on, and Taeyong found his conversation with Kun becoming more difficult as the courses changed and the moon climbed higher. Kun seemed unconvinced by Taeyong’s light words and airy giggles. And, right though he was to doubt them, this distrust in the face of Taeyong applying all that he had been taught was something he was wholly unprepared for.

Taeil, sat between their mother and the crown prince, took over the responsibility of charming Kun, reeling him in with an old story about some of the soldiers. Taeyong took the time to assess his personality, try to understand exactly what it was that Kun did not like about him, when he had been nothing but affable the entire evening.

His eyes scanned the room, pleasantly surprised when he was met with the sight of red and orange mixed around the room, raucous laughter bouncing around the large space. His eyes fell, quite naturally, to where Johnny sat speaking and laughing through a mouth full of food to a group of Meridianam and Ziyou soldiers. Taeyong looked at his own plate which held only a single piece of meat and a small array of vegetables and something like melancholy floated about him.

Beside him, Mark was near shrieking with laughter, clapping his hands together forcefully as Yukhei recited some tale about the first time he had snuck into the market place as a child, evading his guards in his attempt to get a fresh melon and prove to his friend that he could.

Their plates were taken and replaced with smaller ones as cakes were delivered to each table. And though he could practically hear his teacher’s disapproval, even they could not stop Taeyong’s sweet tooth. He took a decent slice of a strawberry sponge and ate it in small bites. A content smile spread across his features.

“Good cake?” an unfamiliar voice asked from next to him. It was only then that Taeyong realised Kun and Taeil had left their seats to go and dance amongst the other soldiers, closer to the musicians.

“Lord Dejun Xiao,” Taeyong greeted, gathering together his personna and putting his fork down. “The cake is exquisite; it has been my favourite since I was a child.”

It was the truth, and it was clear that Dejun knew that, an amused glint to his eye.

“I suppose I’ll have to try it, then.”

He helped himself to a slice, shooting Taeyong a wink as he raised a fork to his mouth. Taeyong allowed himself an incredulous laugh.

Dejun let out a loud noise of satisfaction, fixing Taeyong with an approving nod.

“You were right. It is truly a magnificent cake.”

“I’ll make sure to pass your compliments onto our cook; she will be most delighted.”

They ate cake together in a contented silence for a moment, the din of the rest of the hall ridding any awkwardness.

“Your position,” Taeyong started, “you have two roles in court?”

Dejun hummed affirmatively, swallowing his mouthful before answering.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Please, I am only the third prince; Taeyong is fine.”

“Yes,  _ Taeyong _ ,” he said, waving his fork around in the air. “I was raised alongside the princes and somewhere along the way, they cultivated me into a politician. Then I met Kunhang and, in a rather pathetic attempt to garner his attention, I signed up to be a part of the royal guard.”

Taeyong laughed prettily.

“I was an awful soldier at first - could barely lift a sword let alone wield one effectively. Luckily for me, that meant private lessons with our resident prodigy Kunhang Wong. Thanks to him, I earnt my rank as a soldier but, obviously, my counsel was just too vital in maintaining the kingdom’s stability for them to let me go as a politician. And so, here I am, baring the symbols of both a soldier and a politician. Officially, I am Kun’s personal guard and advisor but that’s more a formality than anything else.”

“And were you successful?” Taeyong raised his glass to his lips. “In garnering Kunhang’s attention?”

“Well, I’d like to say so,” he laughed to himself, “considering that we are engaged to be married.”

Taeyong felt his jaw drop as Dejun let loose a bout of gleeful laughter and showed off the simple band wound around his ring finger.

“Con- congratulations,” Taeyong stuttered out. “You have such a sweet love story.”

And he meant it. It was touching, the way Dejun glanced at Kunhang, sat a long way away from them before answering.

“Thank you,” he smiled. “I’m quite proud of it, too.”

It had been a while since Taeyong had met anyone so obviously in love. Love was dangerous: a public declaration of weakness, but Dejun had not tried to hide it from him. Taeyong was almost envious of how open Dejun was, something in him desperately wanting to not have to hide behind polite smiles and safe distances. But, it was foolish, he reminded himself, to be so exposed.

But still, whether it was the product of confidence or stupidity, it was admirable.

Conversation with Dejun was easy, and it flowed between them as the moon climbed higher, still.

 

“Interesting combination,” Doyoung mused, sitting down next to the youngest Ziyou prince.

Yangyang halted his movements and his hands fell from where they had been preparing a cake adorned with grapes and pork. He grinned guiltily.

“We don’t get tastes like this at home,” he offered as an excuse. “I wanted to know what they all tasted like together.”

Doyoung resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose.

“Let me know if it’s any good.”

“Aye aye!”

It was peculiar, Doyoung thought, watching Yangyang grimace as he tasted his concoction. It was peculiar that this was Ziyou’s third prince, that Yangyang held the same position as Taeyong did and yet behaved so dissimilarly.

Yangyang made a loud noise of disgust, and only just stopped himself from spitting out the food. Taeyong would never have made such a noise, never have let his displeasure show on his face no matter the situation. Then again, Taeyong would never have put pork on a slice of lemon cake in the first place.

“Not good?” he asked as sympathetically as he could.

“Very not good,” Yangyang said, shaking his head. With a sigh, he reached for an apple slice, balancing it carefully atop a piece of chocolate cake.

“Right,” Doyoung said, eyeing him with what he hoped was well-concealed disdain. “Is Meridianam much different to Ziyou? Or is it just the food?”

“Your food is rather a lot blander than ours,” Yangyang said bluntly. “But it’s still good. Especially the deserts. When we leave, I hope I can take some back with me.”

“I’ll draft it into the trade agreements,” Doyoung murmured, amused.

“And it is very different. I’ve never been outside of Ziyou, so I’m finding this all very exciting. It’s much hotter here, so I’m going to ask for some thinner clothes - like those silk ones Prince Mark was wearing. Your palace is very different, too. I’m looking forward to exploring it. I’m sure your garden has some beautiful flowers.”

He spoke very quickly, and Doyoung was surprised at his efficiency in the common tongue. It was hard to keep up, when he kept changing what he was speaking about, but Doyoung smiled despite it.

“I want to see what herbs you grow here. How can you make medicines with them without using magic?” he seemed to realise what he said, voice trailing off before he quickly jumped to rectify his words. “Not that I think magic is essential for life, it’s just that I find it weird- no not weird-  _ different _ that you don’t use it. I am merely curious. I don’t mean to be condescending - perhaps I could even try to introduce your techniques to my country. Not that I want to steal your country’s cultural practices!”

It was the way in which his voice had seemed to reach an entire octave higher and the rapid waving motions of his hands that caused Doyoung to burst out laughing, louder and more real than it had been in a while.

Yangyang seemed confused for a moment, joining in with awkward laughter, panic still fresh on his face.

“I can show you our library,” Doyoung offered once his laughter had subsided. “You can read about Meridianam’s medicinal practices, and I would love to hear all about Ziyou’s.”

Yangyang nodded excitedly, thanking Doyoung. He started another tirade about the healing properties of some herb Doyoung had never heard of.

For a single second, Doyoung caught Taeyong’s eye and gave him a quick nod before turning back to Yangyang and giving him his full attention.

 

Jungwoo tracked Yukhei’s movements around the hall with careful eyes.

He was waiting for the opportunity to approach the middle prince, but it seemed that the moment Yukhei was finished with one conversation, he was caught up in another. Yukhei spoke with all types of people, enthralling soldiers, lords, and servants alike with compelling stories and exaggerated hand movements.

Everywhere he went, deafening laughter followed and he enraptured people with whatever it was he was speaking about. Despite the language and cultural barriers, he spoke easily.

It was fascinating.

And Jungwoo watched, bewitched more than analytical.

It was when Yukhei put down his glass, announcing loudly that he had drunk far too much wine and inquiring where the lavatory was that Jungwoo saw his chance. He waited a few moments before he excused himself quickly from the lord who had been speaking to him for the last half an hour, oblivious to the way Jungwoo had not been responding, and stood up.

He could feel Taeyong’s eyes on him as he exited the hall.

He wandered swiftly down the hallway, crafting the conversation he wanted to have in his mind. These seemingly insignificant talks were important, and each one had to be carefully orchestrated if he wanted to achieve his goal.

He stayed in the shadows just around the corner from the corridor leading to the restroom, until he heard heavy, slightly irregular footsteps nearing him. He inhaled deeply and let his expression mould into something cordial before rounding the corner.

Yukhei wasn’t looking at him, rather he had halted his steps to gaze at one of the portraits hung on the wall. It was one of an old cousin to an old king, some past distant relative of Taeyong’s. She had died young, Jungwoo recalled, and the painting had been commissioned after her death by a mourning family. It hung opposite a large window overlooking the palace gardens, so that her spirit would always be free, they said.

It was a nice sentiment, Jungwoo thought, if a little pitiful.

Yukhei still hadn’t taken notice of him, so Jungwoo cleared his throat.

Yukhei spun around almost comically, eyes catching the torchlight as they widened.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said, and his voice seemed even louder in the quiet of the hallway.

“ _ No, don’t let me stop you _ ,” Jungwoo said, in what he was sure was a very accented attempt at the Ziyou language.

Yukhei’s eyes widened, if possible, even more.

“ _ You speak our language? _ ” His tone was disbelieving and Jungwoo could not help the pleased laugh that escaped him.

“I am Minister of International Affairs,” he said, switching back to the common tongue where he could no longer use Ziyou’s. “I should try to learn at least a few words in our guests’ language before they visit.”

Yukhei stared at him for a moment.

“Still, it’s impressive,” he said finally.

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“Yukhei.”

“Thank you, Yukhei.”

Silence passed between them. It was the longest Jungwoo had seen Yukhei go without speaking for the entire evening.

“This painting, it’s done by a Ziyou artist,” Yukhei declared suddenly, turning back to look at the object in question.

“Is it?” Jungwoo moved to stand next to him. “I must admit art is not my forte.”

Yukhei nodded, pointing to a tiny signature in the corner of the canvas which Jungwoo, for all his years roaming these halls, had never once noticed. It was, indeed, written in the Ziyou characters, unreadable for Jungwoo.

“Zhang Yixing,” Yukhei read. “We have some of his paintings at home. He is very famous.”

Silence fell once more, and Jungwoo didn’t go to break it. Yukhei’s words felt unfinished.

“I just find it… odd, I suppose. That the kingdom that has been our greatest foe for the last five years, that I spent five years fighting against, houses our painter’s work. You display your enemy’s work in your home.”

He paused again, clearly trying to find the words. Jungwoo did not rush him.

“I guess it just shows that we were once friends, that we were unbothered by borders or political differences. That we shared art and compassion.”

He turned to address Jungwoo.

“This painting was made with magic. I can feel it. Did you know that?”

Jungwoo did know that, could feel it himself.

He shook his head.

Yukhei sighed, turning back to the painting.

“And it’s mounted on a wall in the heart of the kingdom that despises magic. I suppose there’s something to be said about that. But I choose to think it’s a good omen. I think it’s a sign that we can overcome the hate that came between us. That we can, not go back, per se, but learn from the past and move forward to a new era where the barriers between us split the land and nothing more. And learning each other’s languages is just the beginning of making that a reality.”

“ _ I agree, _ ” Jungwoo said softly.

Yukhei laughed, looking finally into Jungwoo’s eyes. The smile that took over Jungwoo’s face was almost entirely involuntary.

“I’ll let you get to the restroom now,” Yukhei said, drawing himself up straighter.

Disappointment stirred in Jungwoo but he didn’t protest.

“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” Yukhei paused.

“Jungwoo Kim,” Jungwoo supplied.

“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Jungwoo Kim, Minister of International Affairs.”

Yukhei dipped at the waist, eyes not leaving Jungwoo’s. He set off down the hallway, leaving Jungwoo alone.

Jungwoo’s eyes fell to the three characters printed at the bottom of the canvas, and the magic there seemed to radiate more strongly than before. He stared at them for a long time, thinking over Yukhei’s words and tracing the name with his eyes.

The ringing of one of the clocks in the hall broke through his reverie and he pulled his eyes away from the painting. He chanced it a final look before returning to the feast. 

It was, somehow, even louder than before. And Yukhei was at the centre of it all, beguiling everyone with a ridiculous story accompanied by wild hand movements. He was so different from the pensive, sombre man Jungwoo had encountered in the corridor.

And, as he felt himself become invested in the tale Yukhei was spinning, Jungwoo couldn’t decide which one he preferred.

 

“Fancy seeing you here,” a familiar voice said, too close to his ear, and Doyoung felt his heart lurch.

Jaehyun had the same grin he’d always had, though his eyes were set deeper and he’d grown more into his features. Doyoung fixed him with a scathing glare and ignored the fluster in his chest when Jaehyun’s grin only grew.

“Ah, I’ve missed this.”

“Me glaring at you?”

“Of course.”

Doyoung made to pointedly roll his eyes but stopped short when he noticed the deep scar marring the side of Jaehyun’s neck and remembered himself.

“I was sorry to hear about your father. I offer you my condolences.” It sounded stiff, but Doyoung was unsure what else he could say.

Jaehyun shook his head.

“Keep your condolences. I don’t want them.”

“I’m still sorry-”

“Don’t be,” Jaehyun cut him off, his grin dimming slightly, voice harsher than before. “I’m not sorry he’s gone so you shouldn’t be. He doesn’t deserve your remorse. He doesn’t deserve the medals he’s going to receive, either, but, unfortunately, he’ll get them anyway.”

Bitterness crept across his tone and he ran a hand through his hair.

“You deserve all of yours,” Doyoung said quietly. He couldn’t think of much else to say, but Jaehyun seemed content enough with his efforts.

“That’s high praise coming from you, My Lord.”

“And it’s all you’re getting.”

“It’s all I need.”

 

The hall had grown quieter, and most of the lords had retired for the night. The soldiers were still going strong, slurring their way through songs and swaying.

Taeyong ruffled Mark’s hair, who was too sleepy to even protest.

“Bed, Mark,” he said.

Mark let out an undecipherable moan, eyes blinking slowly. Taeyong caught Donghyuck’s attention and gestured for him to help Mark. Donghyuck was next to him within a second, slinging his arm under Mark’s shoulder to help him out of the hall. He whispered something into Mark’s ear which had him giggling sleepily as the door swung shut behind them.

Taeyong’s eyes flit over the room.

Joohyun and Jinyoung were together, exchanging whispers over glasses of wine. Taeil was next to Kun, the two of them singing along with the other soldiers and holding their glasses high.

His mother was still in her chair, where she’d remained all night. She had seemed detached during the feast, far removed and absent. Her fingers drummed lightly against the side of her chalice and she had a faraway look on her face, gazing at the family portrait hanging over the fireplace, poorly hidden longing in her eyes.

Taeyong stood up and approached his mother, bending down to press a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“Goodnight, mother,” he whispered.

“Goodnight, Tyong,” she replied, but she sounded tired, distant.

Taeyong left the hall and walked down the adjacent corridor until he reached an alcove. He slid into it easily and waited.

Not a minute later, Renjun was in front of him and Taeyong welcomed him with a smile.

Taeyong did not speak as Renjun closed his eyes and he uttered familiar words.

The shadows clinging to the walls slithered to cloak the pair, hugging at their forms and shrouding them in darkness. They moved together out of the alcove, the torchlight no longer hitting them as they became one with the shadows. The people they passed did not see them, sure that any movement they saw was just a trick of the light.

They walked, pressed tight against the wall and in silence until they reached the West wing of the castle. Taeyong pressed a hand to a loose stone and felt the wall give way.

The two of them shuffled inside, the wall falling back into place behind them. Taeyong muttered an incantation, feeling that familiar warmth bubble through him before it broke the surface and two balls of light began to float about their heads and light their way.

“Anything to report about the Ziyou?” Taeyong asked. He had not forgotten Renjun’s face from earlier.

Renjun seemed hesitant to answer. That was strange for him, as blunt as he usually was.

“Renjun?”

“They are kind. They treat us well. They have not said anything against Meridianam.”

Taeyong urged him to continue with a look when Renjun faltered.

“Do not trust one of them.”

At that, Renjun looked up, meeting Taeyong’s eyes dead-on. There wasn’t just gravity in Renjun’s eyes, but  _ fear _ .

“Which one?”

“Dong Sicheng.”

“The guard?”

“You cannot trust him; you must not.” Renjun’s voice was frantic now, in a way Taeyong had never heard it before. “I do not know why or how he is here but you cannot trust him.”

Taeyong placed his hands on Renjun’s shoulders, trying to pull him back to safety.

“I won’t. I will never trust anyone if you tell me you do not trust them.”

Renjun nodded, his breathing evening out.

“Can you tell me why?”

Renjun, in that moment, looked more like a child than he had since that first time Taeyong had met him. Taeyong felt concern pool in his stomach.

“I know him. From before.”

Taeyong inhaled sharply, pulling Renjun close and wrapping his arms around the boy’s thin form.

“We will watch him, I promise you. Jaemin and Jeno will help keep you hidden from him. He will not get close to you; I will not let him.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Renjun whispered against his chest.

They stayed that way for a moment, until Taeyong was sure Renjun was fine.

They continued down the passageway in silence, fresh air hitting them with a light breeze as they emerged beyond the castle walls. Shadows still lingered around them as they wove through the forest, cold air dancing across their skin. The forest was eerie, quiet, but the air was alive with something electric and Taeyong could feel it spilling into his veins the longer they walked.

They made their way through a familiar thicket of trees until they reached a clearing. Renjun dispelled the shadows around them when they saw the single figure standing there, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight.

A pixie-like smile broke out on the figure’s face when he saw them and Taeyong felt one of his own grow to match it.

“Hello there, Princey,” Ten called out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im really sorry that this feels like a filler chapter but it was very important i swear
> 
> if you made it this far thankkk you <33  
> please validate me by leaving kudos and comments
> 
>  
> 
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	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick warning: just a reminder that this story takes place after a war so there will be a lot of referenced character deaths and this chapter features a few specifically named examples, so please be careful if you find those kinds of things upsetting
> 
> as always shoutout to ma girl caitlin for proofing
> 
> please enjoy!

Taeyong surged forward across the clearing, almost falling into Ten’s open arms with how quickly he was moving.

Ten giggled, bright and loud against the quiet of the forest. He wrapped his arms easily around Taeyong, eyes glinting as they caught the moonlight. Ten smelt of the earth and rain but also carried that sense of something charged, and Taeyong felt the magic that lay dormant in him come alive when they embraced.

That was one of Ten’s abilities - one he shared with Jungwoo - the ability to let his own feelings and thoughts spread to those around him. And, standing with him in the centre of that empty clearing, Taeyong could feel Ten’s mischievous excitement flood into him until he had forgotten about the danger that existed elsewhere.

In this moment, the only thing that existed was the forest and all it contained.

They pulled away and Taeyong took the brief moments to examine Ten’s face. He frowned.

Ten had always been lithe - thin - but his cheekbones seemed more defined, his skin more hallowed and sunken. Dark greys circled underneath his eyes and there was something erratic about his gaze.

Taeyong opened his mouth, but Ten seemed to guess what he was about to ask and pointedly turned his attention away.

“Renjunie,” Ten’s voice was forcefully blithe, “you coming with us?”

Taeyong didn’t take his eyes off of Ten, looking at the lines on his forehead Taeyong was sure had not been there before, but he supposed Renjun nodded as Ten turned, reaching out for Taeyong’s hand with his own yet still not looking him in the eye.

He led them through the trees, which seemed to grow closer and closer together the longer they walked. The trunks of each tree started to blend into one, twisting around each other so that moonlight became more and more sparse. Taeyong could feel Renjun’s body pressed against his own, walking closely behind him.

Taeyong didn’t want to press Ten, didn’t want to push him onto the defensive so instead he searched around his mind for something else he could say, no matter how much concern clawed at him.

“How did you know we were coming?”

Ten threw a smirk over his shoulder. Taeyong returned it with a smile of his own when he saw that it softened out some of the lines on Ten’s face.

“I grew this forest. It is me and I am it. I could feel you coming, even with your cloaks of shadow.”

They drew to a stop in front of a seemingly normal cluster of trees. But Taeyong could feel it. The pure energy radiating from this place was palpable, thick in the air.

Ten released Taeyong’s hand from his own and stepped forward, placing a palm flat against the trunk of one of the trees.

Ten closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath. Taeyong felt the hairs on his arm stand upright, anticipation building in him as he began to feel it.

That feeling.

Warm yet cold, raw and uncontained but controlled and exact. Taeyong closed his eyes, basked in the feeling that was forbidden within the palace. And he felt some deserted part of his soul come to life again.

A soft glow spread out around where Ten’s hand was in contact with the tree before it seemed to bleed into the bark. The tree trunk moved. It twisted out of its place between the other trees, and Taeyong felt compelled to fall into the space it created, lured by more of that feeling.

The tree continued to move until it was almost entirely separate from the others, its leaves shaking audibly above them.

Ten shot him a wink before stepping cooly into the dark space, letting the forest engulf him.

Taeyong followed quickly behind him, closing his eyes as he walked through the darkness. A strange but familiar feeling overtook him - a sort of dizzying sensation stemming from his stomach - as he passed into the unseen world. It was a warping feeling, emerging into a place that didn’t quite exist.

The grove on the other side of reality was large, stretched for miles into a distance that wasn’t there. It was decorated with lightning bolts courtesy of Lisa and Bambam, frozen in a split second in time and mounted against tree trunks. Trees grown with Ten’s lifeblood weaved together in a make-shift roof, leaves meshing together to provide shelter.

A piano, grown from wood and sewn together with beams of light, stood off to the side, a bright contrast against the shadows that surrounded it.

The grove was alive with cheerful voices and laughter, which dwindled as the remaining members of Aeternum turned to register their presence.

Seulgi rose from where she had been sitting on a tree stump and crossed the space to engulf Taeyong in a tight hug before doing the same to Renjun, cooing at him even as he tried to pull away.

She beamed at Taeyong, but even her bright smile could not hide the distinct tiredness about her face. Her hair was shorter than it had been the last time he’d seen her, but it was cut jaggedly - the strands uneven in length.

Taeyong felt more worry stir in his gut.

She took his hand and Taeyong allowed her to lead him to sit on a new tree stump which sprouted from the ground, courtesy of Ten.

His clothes stood out horribly against theirs. His rich fabrics and intricate designs seemed needlessly obnoxious in the face of their tattered rags, made of mismatched material sewn messily together with fraying string. Clothes stolen in the dead of the night from people who would not miss them. Bambam had grown again; his trousers barely reached mid-calf.

Something tore at Taeyong’s heart and he made a mental note to send them more supplies when he could, for their rations seemed to be growing thin, judging from Taemin’s bony elbows currently digging into the earth as he lay on the floor.

The grove was quiet for a moment.

“Peace talks start tomorrow,” Taeyong said.

“We’re aware,” Ten said shortly. “It’s all anyone’s been talking about.”

Ten didn’t like talking about politics. Ten liked to pretend Taeyong’s family weren’t who they actually were - that Taeyong was just another member of the troupe, that he existed separate to the people who had thrown Hakyeon into prison and Aeternum into disgrace. It was childish to imagine the world as different than it actually was, but Taeyong had his own things he liked to pretend were real when he knew they were not, so he supposed he was in no position to judge.

He needed to talk about this, though. And he needed Ten to listen. But Ten was a stubborn creature.

“If all goes well, we should enter into a new age of peace.”

Lisa looked at him, hope spreading on her face and Taeyong felt it like a weight on his chest. Hope was such a dangerous thing.

“You think they’ll find the person who really murdered the King and we’ll be cleared? Hakyeon could be released and we could come out of hiding?”

Taeyong could feel anticipation surge through the grove as all the others joined in looking at him. And part of him wanted to say yes, to tell them that he held that same hope for the future. Part of him wanted to pretend.

But he could not do that to them. Not to these people he trusted. He couldn’t give them false hope, build them up with lies dressed up in wishes and leave them to break when his words collapsed beneath them.

He shook his head.

It was a slight movement, but he felt it extinguish any hope they had held. Smiles fell off their faces and they all looked away, as though Taeyong and all his finery caused them pain.

“If the Ziyou are becoming our friends,” Taeyong tried to explain, “that means you will become our primary enemy again. The Queen is set on hunting you down. It is about to be far more dangerous for you all to venture outside the grove. You will have to stay hidden, even at night.”

“But we already hardly go out; night is all we have!” Jongin said, sitting up.

And it was true. Taeyong could see how Bambam’s skin was too pale, how Taemin’s bones seemed to click with his every movement. It was painful to see them like that, but it would be more painful to see them in iron chains.

“I know,” Taeyong said, as placating as he could. “But if any of you are caught, and brought into the castle as a prisoner, and I cannot help you, then I would never forgive myself.”

Something like guilt streaked across their faces, but that wasn’t what Taeyong wanted. He pushed a hand through his hair, searching for the right words.

“I just want you all to be safe, and this is the safest place for you.”

Resignation settled across the troupe.

“I’m sorry,” Taeyon offered them, because he truly was, and it was all he could really give them.

Ten shook his head, the bitterness that had been there mere moments prior melting into something softer.

“Not your fault, Yongie. Never your fault.”

Silence overtook them once more before Seulgi started talking about something or other, pulling the others into a conversation with faux-optimism.

Ten met Taeyong’s eyes for a split-second before he began to walk away. Taeyong followed him until they were both standing half in shadow, half in light.

“You really don’t think you’ll be able to clear Hakyeon’s name?” Ten’s voice was no more than a murmur.

Taeyong shook his head again. “Whispers can only do so much, Ten. I fear I was already too obvious in protecting Hakyeon from execution. I think the chances of finding my father’s real killer are impossibly slim and, even if we did find them, it would take some mighty force for my mother to admit that she was wrong, for her to let go of the resentment she holds. I really am so sorry, Ten. I will try as best as I can - to clear both his name and yours. You don’t deserve to have to hide, to be hated for a crime you did not commit.”

Ten nodded, his face sombre. It was a horrible difference to the mirth he had used to possess and Taeyong hated it.

Ten leant back against the trunk of a tree, arms crossed over his chest.

“The soldiers returned home safely?”

For all his distaste for the royals, Ten did care for the people who fought their wars for them. He cared for them, even if they hated him for something he had not done.

“For the most part. We suffered losses - too many to justify what we gained.”

Ten hummed.

“And Johnny?”

The name stirred something in Taeyong’s chest. Ten raised an eyebrow, amusement visible again in his eyes. Ten, his confidante, his friend removed from the secrecy of the court. Ten, who knew him far too well.

“Alive.”

Ten gave him a look.

“I spoke to him - I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it. He seems different, in a way I can’t quite place. I know that shouldn’t surprise me - that I have no room to talk - but… But he seems strange, angrier.”

Ten nodded slowly.

“It’s not like it’s a thing I can entertain anyway, even if things didn’t feel so,” Taeyong looked for the right word, “awkward between us. It’s a childish desire.”

“And yet you still desire it.”

“And yet I still desire it,” Taeyong admitted.

“You are allowed to be selfish sometimes, Yongie.”

Taeyong met Ten’s eyes. “No, I’m not.”

Silence stretched between them, painful and loud. It was somewhat fascinating, Taeyong thought, that even here - in a grove so detached from reality - the unspoken rules of the court still commanded his every feeling.

Fascinating but so, so horrible.

Ten pulled him into another warm hug, trying to push happiness into Taeyong’s mind with his magic but it was weak, as though Ten himself didn’t quite believe in it.

“Let’s dance,” Ten said.

Ten took him by the hand and pulled him back into the centre of the grove. The tree stumps were swallowed by the earth, shrinking back into the dirt.

Taeyong paused for a moment, unlacing his leather boots and pulling them off. He unclasped his cloak and let it fall ungracefully. It hit the ground with a solid thud. He removed his crown from his head, placing it atop his cloak and stepping forward.

Ten nodded at Jongin, who closed his eyes and Taeyong felt that feeling again, strong and wonderful. Jongin waved his hand in the air, and Taeyong could almost see the way magic left his palm and spread to the air around it. He could almost see the way the magic was carried in a light breeze until it reached the piano. And the wind danced atop the keys, applying pressure to each of them so that a tune was created.

The music was hauntingly beautiful. Taeyong recognised it - one of Hakyeon’s last before he had been arrested. He hadn’t had time to choreograph something to accompany it.

Ten began to dance first, movements matching the music in perfect harmony. Each move was elegant yet exact and calculated in that way only Ten could manage. And Taeyong was bewitched, just as he was every time he watched Ten dance.

As Ten continued, lost himself more to his dance, Taeyong could feel more of that feeling pulling him in, urging him to join. And Taeyong could not resist the call of that feeling.

Beckoned by compulsion, he allowed himself to get caught up in the song, allowed his limbs to become enslaved by the melancholic tune flowing about the air. His body became pliant, controlled by the music and Taeyong adored it.

He relished in the feeling of his bare feet digging into the dirt floor, the sensation of the warm air floating just above his skin. His movements were free and unrestrained. He could feel magic blooming in his chest and did nothing to push it down. He let it build and grow until it was flying from his fingertips, bright balls of energy joining him in his dance, accentuating his every movement.

It was easy to lose track of time when you were in a place that didn’t quite exist.

 

Taeyong didn’t know how long he’d been dancing. But he knew it had been too long, for Renjun was asleep, slumped in the curve of a tree Ten must have grown around him.

Taeyong pulled himself from his dance-induced stupor and willed the energy surrounding him to dissipate into the air.

The others stopped when he did, following his eyeline to where Renjun lay and Jongin waved his hand again, the wind becoming still once more and the music came to an end.

Taeyong moved swiftly to Renjun’s sleeping form and gently shook his shoulder. Renjun jolted awake, looking startled and almost immediately jumping upright, stopped only by Taeyong’s hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Taeyong said, voice quiet and soothing. “You’re okay; you just fell asleep. You good to leave now?”

Renjun nodded, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Taeyong stood up, turning around to face Aeternum. He picked up his clothes and put them on, ignoring the patches of dirt clinging to his cloak. He shared a long hug with each of them, holding them tight and whispering farewells into their ears. He hated how bony they all felt beneath his arms.

He held onto Ten for a particularly long time, savouring the comfort it gave him.

“Go get us some peace, Princey,” Ten said with a small grin when they finally parted.

“I won’t be able to return for quite some time,” Taeyong told them. “Please, stay safe.”

“We’ll try.”

Taeyong let his eyes roam over them one last time, longing building in his chest that he ignored. He flashed them a small smile, as genuine as he could manage, before turning back to the grove’s entrance.

Ten spoke a few words and magic flowed through the earth from where he stood to the roots of the tree until it spun out of place. It was a door back to everything Taeyong wanted to run away from, everything he wanted to hide from in this small pocket of reality, but duty beckoned him and he was powerless against it.

“Thank you.”

Outside of the grove, Renjun reassembled the shadows to cover them as they made their way back out of the forest. And Taeyong knew he wasn’t imagining the way the trees seemed to move to provide them with an easier journey. He sent a silent thanks to Ten.

Dawn was breaking, light creeping through the cracks in the horizon and that made the shadows less effective, made them more exposed. In silence they walked back to the castle, the stones of the walls parting for them and allowing them back into the west wing. Only when they were a sufficient distance from the passageway, did Renjun dispel the shadows around them.

Despite Taeyong’s protests, Renjun escorted Taeyong to back to his chambers. They were walking down a corridor, close to their destination, when they heard footsteps and nearly froze in their tracks. They shared a brief moment of eye contact before Renjun slithered to the side of the wall, hidden from the sun’s rays, and became one with the shadows. 

Taeyong pulled himself up to his full height, looking down his nose.

He continued walking, and could see - just barely, out of the corner of his eye - the shape of the shadows change as Renjun walked alongside him.

As he approached the corner, his heart thrummed loudly in his chest and he prayed it was just a servant. Surprise overtook him when he saw the figure round the corner, but he willed it down.

“Lord Xiao,” Taeyong greeted, inclining his head.

“Your Highness,” Dejun said, dipping at the waist.

Dejun was dressed differently than he had been at the feast, far less fancy - more practical. He wore leather trousers and a simple white shirt. His sword hung from the sheath at his hip, the golden embellishments on the handle catching in the light.

“What are you doing up so early?” Taeyong asked, trying his best to make it come across as friendly rather than interrogative.

“I was going for an early morning run before breakfast, dawn is a peaceful time.”

“I agree.”

A beat passed.

“What are you doing up?”

“I could not sleep.” Taeyong went with the easiest lie.

Something like concern showed itself on Dejun’s face. “I am sorry to hear that, My Lord,” he said, and it sounded genuine. “If you should like, Yang- Prince Yangyang makes a masterful sleeping draught, no magic involved.”

Taeyong let a warm smile spread across his face.

“I thank you for your kind offer; I may take you up on it.”

Dejun smiled, amicable and kind. Taeyong paused for a moment, deciding his next words carefully, whether he should say the truth at the tip of his tongue.

“I do not hate magic, Dejun,” he said.

He looked Dejun square in the eyes when he spoke, so he could see shock take over his features, his mouth hanging open for a good few seconds before he remembered himself. Taeyong stifled a laugh.

Taeyong didn’t give Dejun the time to respond; he didn’t need him to. Instead, he moved past Dejun, waiting until he was a good few paces away before pausing and turning his head to speak over his shoulder.

“Goodnight - or, I suppose - good morning, Dejun. I hope you enjoy your run. Dawn is a spectacular sight from the eastern gardens.”

 

Taeyong hadn’t slept.

The sun was high, beams coating his room in pale light. Renjun had left to attend to the Ziyou and the stillness of the air calmed him. Vaguely, in his peripheral, he could make out figures in the training grounds out of his window.

Sheets of parchment lay scattered across his wooden desk where he sat upright in his seat. His eyes scanned over each document carefully, reviewing every record they had of the war, of the relationship between Meridianam and Ziyou before it had begun, everything with the slightest relevance. He read through minutes of meetings and letters exchanged between the royals of both countries as they bargained for peace.

He held, fanned out in his hands, handwritten notes from each of his family, bar Mark. Each of them bore the respective person’s demands from Ziyou, what they hoped to gain from these talks. Joohyun’s focused on diplomacy and their people, Taeil’s centred around the military and borders and Taeyong’s own encompassed everything to do with finance and trade agreements. The Queen’s consisted of a single demand, a single line written by a shaking hand.

Taeyong rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes. He compiled the lists together onto a single sheet of parchment, writing in cursive as he lay out what his country expected to gain from these peace talks. It was menial work, but required too much thought to delegate to Doyoung or Jungwoo. He took his family’s words, made them something more cordial, the demands less harsh and more likely to be accepted. He disguised their intentions as best he could and could only hope they would not notice.

He was just finishing the finalised proposal, writing his mother’s request at the bottom of the page when his door swung open. He looked up briefly before returning his attention back to his work when he saw that it was only Jaemin.

Jaemin stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. He hadn’t knocked and when he spoke, it was without being addressed first. He sounded frantic.

“I think Yuta’s about to start another war.”

Taeyong’s grip went loose and he only just had the presence of mind to stop his quill before it fell onto his page. His head shot up and his hand quickly searched for his ink well, thrusting his quill into it as stood up. His chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“What?”

He was already moving, following Jaemin out of his chambers and down the hallway. They took a passageway, dark and winding, and Jaemin hurried to explain as they moved.

“There’s this soldier from Ziyou,” Jaemin’s words were breathy, “Yuta must know him from the war and it must have been bad for him to react in this way.”

“What part of  _ peace _ talks does he not understand?” Taeyong gritted out tersely.

They emerged in a stairwell near the training grounds. They made their way across the fields, and Taeyong could already see the signs of a commotion. It was difficult to make out exactly what was happening, but there was a large group of people gathered, and shouting reached their ears despite the distance.

Taeyong pulled his pace into something more controlled but still fast. He held his head up and subdued his breaths, schooling his face into something more authoritative.

As they approached, Taeyong could make out the scene more easily and he felt a frown form on his face.

Yuta stood in the centre, shouting loudly at the person standing opposite him, whose face Taeyong could not see. Johnny had his arms wrapped around Yuta’s midriff and chest, restraining him. Johnny was saying something into Yuta’s ear but it seemed Yuta did not care to listen as he struggled relentlessly against Johnny’s hold.

The crowd stood in an abstract circle around them was composed of both Ziyou and Meridianam soldiers alike, some stood in a shocked silence and others adding their own voices to the mix. A quick glance told Taeyong that Chenle stood among them, though Renjun was nowhere to be seen.

“-you looked him in the eyes and killed him! With his own shadow, you coward! You stared him down from a distance and murdered him in cold blood.” Yuta’s voice was raw, as though he was ripping the words straight from his throat. His face was contorted in pure hatred and anger. It was the most terrifying Taeyong had ever seen him and for a moment he froze in his tracks, staring at his friend as he was possessed by something dark.

His sword lay on the ground at an odd angle, as though it had been prised from his grasp and fallen.

Taeyong made eye contact with Johnny for a single moment and the frenzy there jolted him back to his senses.

“Sir Nakamoto!” he barked, voice as forceful as he could let it be without betraying his image.

Yuta barely spared him a glance before he was back to yelling, curses tumbling from his throat, threats and insults thrown to the air.

“Sir Nakamoto,” Taeyong said, quieter this time, but far more menacing, with far more power.

Yuta actually turned to look at him this time and his efforts to fight against Johnny’s hold faltered slightly, but did not stop, as he met Taeyong’s gaze.

“Taeyo- Your Highness, this man - this, this,” Yuta seemed to struggle around for a word to adequately describe him and when he could not find one his voice dropped into a whisper, broken and morose, “he killed Hansol.”

That explained it. Taeyong felt his stomach drop, resentment crawling around his mind but he willed himself to stay neutral.

Hansol, a low-born soldier Yuta had known even before he’d come to the castle. Hansol, who had climbed the ranks with nothing but his own grit and talent. Hansol, who fought beside Yuta as though he was born to do so. Hansol, who would be awarded a posthumous medal that did not come close to what he deserved.

That explained so much.

“I don’t want him in my home; I don’t want him in my country. I want him to leave or I want to kill him. I want to look him in the eyes the same way he did to Hansol.”

Taeyong finally managed to tear his eyes off of Yuta and move his gaze to Hansol’s murderer, finally ready to discover who it was.

Sicheng Dong.

Sicheng Dong stood there, in a cloak too heavy for the climate and a strange look on his face that Taeyong couldn’t read.

Panic and confusion and rage flashed through him as Renjun’s words rang in his ears alongside Yuta’s. Realisation settled into his chest, sudden and disconcerting.

“Yuta, he is here as part of his duty; he cannot leave. And, as your prince, I forbid you from killing him. Do not jeopardise the peace we have only just achieved.”

Yuta stopped struggling, anger morphing into desperation. He looked Taeyong directly in the eyes, and Taeyong hated how defeated he looked.

“Then he should at least apologise. He should show remorse, beg for forgiveness for what he did. If he wants peace then he should make amends.”

Yuta’s voice sounded so thin, so worn - like he was grasping frantically at things to say that might offer him some solace but knew that it was hopeless.

“Apologise?” Sicheng’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the space like a blade. He raised his head, his eyes murderous when they met Yuta’s. “You think you were the only one to lose people? Hate me as much as you want but if you’re so desperate for an apology then start with all of my friends whose deaths you were responsible for. Apologise to Liang Hui, and Wu Yifan, and Huang Zitao, and Lu Han. And those are just those I know you were directly responsible for. Beg for their forgiveness, then maybe I’ll be sorry for killing your precious friend.”

Fury seeped back into Yuta and he began thrashing even more against Johnny’s hold. He broke free, and Johnny’s gaze turned alarmed as Yuta charged at Sicheng.

He was stopped only when Jaehyun ran out from the crowd and pulled him back by his wrist, sliding his arms around Yuta even as he continued to flail wildly. Johnny joined him and, together, they managed to restrain him.

Sicheng hadn’t moved, hadn’t even flinched. He had not been scared in the slightest.

Resolution was impossible, Taeyong decided. Separation was the only solution, however temporary it might be. He turned to Johnny and Jaehyun.

“Get him out of here and try to calm him down. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Jaehyun nodded and the both of them began to drag Yuta away, despite his protests. Taeyong turned back to where Sicheng stood, watching Yuta be removed with an undecipherable look.

“Sir Dong,” Taeyong forced himself to sound as pleasant as possible, even though bile rose in his throat as he spoke, “I apologise for Sir Nakamoto’s behaviour. He is emotional and still recovering and I hope you can look past this unfortunate incident. You are welcome in our country.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Sicheng said curtly, bowing quickly, but he didn’t quite look at him.

Taeyong nodded at him, walking off in the direction Johnny and Jaehyun had taken Yuta. The crowd parted easily for him, everyone bowing until he had passed. Absently, he registered Jaemin following behind him.

Jaehyun and Johnny had taken Yuta to the stables, around the back of the training barracks. Yuta was sat on a stack of hay, breathing heavily through tears. Taeyong treaded carefully through the stables; it was the first time he had been here in many years. Jaemin remained outside, keeping watch and ensuring no one would overhear them.

Johnny and Jaehyun looked up when he approached but Yuta remained staring at the ground as his body shook. Taeyong couldn’t help the sympathy that flooded through him, couldn’t help the way he dropped to the floor in front of where Yuta sat, placing a hand delicately on his shoulder in an attempt to reel his mind back in from where he had disappeared to.

It was clear Johnny and Jaehyun were surprised at the motion, their mouths falling open. Jaehyun began to scramble for another haystack for Taeyong to sit on, but Taeyong waved him off. He gestured for the pair of them to leave and Jaehyun obeyed almost immediately, only throwing a single glance of concern at Yuta before we walked towards the exit.

Johnny seemed more hesitant, levelling Taeyong with a look - a mixture of confusion and something sad - before following Jaehyun out of the stable.

“He killed him, Yong. It was him.” Yuta finally looked up at him. “He was the general at the Battle of the Border.”

Taeyong nodded and, though he had somewhat already known that, it still struck a sick feeling into his stomach to have it confirmed.

The Battle of the Border.

Their army had been tricked, lured into separating so that when the Ziyou came at them in the empty plain at their northern border they had been divided, weak. Yuta, the highest ranked officer there, had been obligated to take charge, to plan and organise a strategy with barely any time to spare. He had managed it, but only just, only thanks to Hansol.

It had been one of their most tragic losses.

Taeyong remembered hearing the stories when they reached the castle, how it had ended in a brutal bloodbath with nothing but death gained on either side as neither would retreat. A pointless loss of life Yuta was to be given a medal for and hated.

He remembered hearing the stories about how the two armies had clashed as they both attempted to flank the other, how the armies met before either side was prepared, how their strategies were too similar for any true tactical advantage. The stories about how it had ended with the two generals eye to eye surrounded by the corpses of their soldiers.

Taeyong pulled Yuta forward and Yuta went easily, his body slumping against Taeyong’s, heavy and heaving with sobs.

The entire country had been in mourning for weeks after they received news of it. The country had worn black, and white lilies had been laid at the doorstep of every soldier who would not return.

Never before had Taeyong felt despair and grief so tangible you could not breathe without choking on it.

And Yuta carried that inside of him, every day. But, for this short time, Taeyong allowed him to let it out in harrowing, choked cries and curses.

“It was a war, Yuta,” he said softly, his hand stroking gently through Yuta’s hair. “We all killed people and we are all remorseful but we are all angry and we would all do the same thing again, for our loved ones, for our country, for whatever other reason we fought. You can’t expect Sicheng to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. He just did what we all did.”

It was clear Yuta knew that, at some level, but that there was still some part of him that fought against it, that refused to let go of that anger. Tears and snot seeped into the expensive fabric of Taeyong’s shirt, but he paid it no mind, too focused on lulling his friend back into stability.

Time passed slowly but Taeyong made no move to rush Yuta. He let him cry himself to the point of exhaustion. Even when his sobs had subsided, Taeyong remained still.

He would stay with Yuta as long as he needed, trade documents and preparation for the peace talks a faraway thought in his mind. Yuta and his well-being came first, his duties be damned.

  
  


Taeyong sat in his chair, fourth in a line of five.

The East Hall had been modified into a conference room of sorts and it was where the peace talks would take place. They had decided the throne room would be too imposing, would make it seem as though they were trying to put a distance between themselves and the Ziyou.

The Ziyou were placed on the opposite side of the hall to them, but that wasn’t too far. If they wanted to create a sense of comfort and trust, they needed to be decently close to each other.

Long wooden tables had been arranged into neat lines, allowing each court’s politicians and advisors to partake in the discussions. There was a clear divide between the Ziyou and the Meridianam and each side spoke in hushed whispers amongst themselves, neither using the common tongue.

Papers littered along all of the tables and people were shuffling them about as they waited for the meeting to begin. In front of Taeyong, though, the table was clear. He had memorised all that he needed to, did not need to constantly check for facts or old letters. Instead, he had made sure that each document had found its way to very specific individual people within his own court. Those people would bring up his issues for him. All he had to do was trust in them and sit there and look pretty. The perfect third prince.

When his mother stood, the room fell silent and everyone turned to look at her.

She began the meeting with a short speech about a new age of peace for the third time in two days. Taeyong supposed it was rather awful of him that he found himself growing bored of hearing about peace, especially when it was only surface level. His mind flashed briefly to where there was a gap between the guards that lined the wall of the hall where Yuta should have been standing.

“We shall commence the meeting with a list of demands from both kingdoms and, from there, we will set out an agenda to work out the finer nuances of each subject.”

The Ziyou went first, Kun rising from where he sat to begin to read out each of their demands.

Across the hall, hands went flying for quills as Meridianam politicians began to transcribe what Kun was saying. None of them were faster than Jeno, Doyoung’s apprentice, who sat in a far corner of the room and was responsible for keeping the minutes of each meeting. It was to him that Taeyong had delivered a large part of his documents.

It was a special skill of Taeyong’s, that he could sit and listen attentively to each word being said, commit it to memory and compare it against what he already knew whilst keeping his appearance entirely indifferent.

He weighed each of the Ziyou’s demands against their own, making mental notes about where they differed and where they were similar.

Once Kun had finished, Queen Taeyeon thanked him and began to recite Meridianam’s demands. She read from the scroll Taeyong had only finished writing that morning, her voice soothing.

When she reached the final line of the list, she paused, taking a deep breath no doubt to settle her anger before she spoke.

“Our final demand,” she started, and Taeyong hoped that the shake to her voice was not as audible to the others in the hall as it was to him, “is that you must turn over all those directly responsible for the death of our late King Iseun, so that we may charge them with treason and punish them accordingly.”

Silence swallowed the hall. Taeyong could practically feel the thirst for justice - revenge - radiating from Meridianam’s side of the hall, could see the shock that overtook the Ziyou.

It seemed that Yukhei was the first to recover. He stood quickly.

“With my deepest regards, Your Majesty,” he said, “we cannot grant that final request of yours-”

“It was not a request; it was a demand,” the Queen cut him off, voice stony.

“Apologies. We cannot meet that final demand of yours, for we do not know who killed your King.”

“You do. Because you had him murdered.”

The air had turned tense, heavy as the Queen and Yukhei stared each other down from across the hall and politicians shifted in their seats.

“We did no such thing, My Lady,” Yukhei was clearly irritated now, ignoring the way Kun tried to pull him to sit down again.

“You did - you were ruthless when you killed him and you are cowards now to deny it!”

Her voice was shrill, distraught. Taeyong met Joohyun’s eyes and they shared a look of fear before Joohyun rose to her feet, placing a hand on their mother’s arm, trying to calm her down.

The Queen shook her off, blinded by rage.

“Your Majesty,” there was strength behind each of Yukhei’s words, hinting at the frustration that was becoming ever-more obvious, “we had no part in the death of your husband and it is insulting that you distrust our word and our honour when we are here to make peace.”

“Then make peace by telling the truth and giving me the chance for retribution.”

Yukhei’s face was red, eyebrows knitted together in agitation.

“Your Majesty!” he near-shouted.

Taeyong only felt it just then, and a split-second before everyone else, he felt dread drop flat in his gut.

Bright sparks of orange burst from Yukhei’s eyes.

It was accidental, entirely unintended. Taeyong knew that, from the way Yukhei’s eyes widened in shock and he looked horrified, the way he looked at Kun for help, guilt marring his face and suddenly seeming far younger than he had moments ago.

Passion was a difficult thing to control, especially when you were not used to it. But the people of Meridianam could not have known that.

And just that - that momentary loss of control - was enough for the room to be thrown into tumult.

Each Meridianam soldier drew their sword and the Ziyou guards responded to them by doing the same. Every person in the room surged to their feet, eyeing the foreign people with wariness, everyone on edge. Next to him, Mark was looking around worriedly, his head turning frantically.

“You dare,” the Queen looked aghast and when she finally spoke, her voice was low and vicious. “You dare to come into my home and lie to me and then you dare to perform magic.”

Silence fell over the room once more as the Queen breathed heavily.

“How dare you?!” she was shrieking now, a piercing sound of true wrath. “May I remind you that this is my home - my country - and you swore that you would not practise that foul, evil, disgusting thing! How dare yo- how- how  _ dare _ you?”

She seethed for a moment in the quiet of the stunned hall.

“I do not wish to see him; I do not wish to be near him if he is to violate my trust. I want him out of my sight,” she spat.

No one moved for quite some time as the Queen regained her breath, still staring at where Yukhei now stood petrified. It was as though each person was challenging everyone else to try to move, to risk the wrath of the Queen who had just publicly lost her mind.

It was Joohyun who dared to break the stillness, unfaltering and bold in the way she gripped their mother’s arms with both hands.

“Mother.”

When the Queen turned to face her daughter, Taeyong felt the anxiety in his chest give way to sympathy. She looked lost, as though she wasn’t quite sure what had happened. Her deranged power from earlier had whittled down into something more pitiful.

Joohyun used her hold on the Queen’s arm to guide her out of the hall, the guards quickly scampering to open the doors to let them out.

Taeyong turned to address the court in the most amicable way that he could.

“This meeting is adjourned. We will organise the next talk when an agenda has been created and we have all had an opportunity to look over the demands carefully. Until then, we thank you all for your cooperation and efforts in moving towards a new age of peace.”

And like he had snapped his fingers, the room came alive again as everyone tried to make themselves look busy. It was entirely conspicuous, the way everyone was avoiding looking at the Ziyou table, where Yukhei still looked distraught.

All but one. For Jungwoo was staring directly at Yukhei with a blank look on his face, remaining perfectly still as the world moved around him.

Taeyong left the hall quickly, leading Mark out by the wrist as they followed after their mother, Taeil right behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen right so ik its meant to be a serious scene and all but after i wrote that yukhei said 'my lady' i laughed for a solid minute because i couldnt stop thinking about him singing it at the beginning of that one vlive
> 
> thank you so much for reading if you made it this far  
> kudos and comments brighten my day so please leave them if you want
> 
> feel free to come talk to me about this story on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whatisanult) or [CC](https://curiouscat.me/whatisanult)
> 
> thanks again!  
> \- gemma <333


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your comments on the last chapter <33
> 
> as always the biggest thanks to caitlin for proofreading ily x
> 
> enjoy!

“Well, that was a disaster.”

Doyoung wasn’t wrong. In fact, it was a vast understatement but it didn’t matter to Taeyong how right he was; it irritated him nonetheless.

Taeyong was exhausted. It was dark outside the castle and he’d spent the entire day holed up in his mother’s chambers with his other siblings trying to figure out what their next steps would be. He pointedly ignored Doyoung, stalking past where the scholar sat at his desk and walked straight across his bedroom to collapse on his bed.

Jungwoo, already sitting on the bed, moved to accommodate him, fingers patting gently atop his hair. But even the plush pillows and silk sheets and Jungwoo’s tender comfort could not coerce the fatigue from his bones. It weighed down on his mind, dense and unmoving. It clogged his thoughts until they were a thick fog of vague stress.

Distantly, he registered someone removing the boots from his feet, feeling more like they were peeling off a second layer of his skin. It stood as evidence to his tiredness that he had not even noticed the Dreamies sat scattered around the room.

He let his eyes sink shut, wanting just a moment of peace from politics. It didn’t last long.

“What have you decided to do?” Doyoung seemed unperturbed by the scowl Taeyong shot at him.

It was difficult enough to keep his eyes open, let alone organise his thoughts into something coherent, but he pulled himself into a sitting position despite it. The dull ache in his head morphed into a more throbbing sensation.

“Mother might just pounce on Prince Yukhei if she sees him again,” he said. It was a half-joke, not intended to be funny but intended to at least be lighter than what would follow.

They all took it very seriously, though. And Taeyong couldn’t blame them ‒ after what had happened in the peace talks, there was a part of him that was worried his mother was entirely capable of launching a vicious assault on Yukhei.

“I’ll keep Yukhei away from the Queen,” Renjun said. “I know her schedule. It’ll be easy enough.”

Taeyong offered him a grateful smile. He took a deep breath.

“It was difficult to calm her down. She looked half-mad.” He took another breath, pushing past the fog in his brain to try and grasp the severity of the situation with his words. Though he wasn’t sure it would have been possible even if his mind was at its best. “It’s the angriest I’ve ever seen her in public. For all the lessons she put me through about controlling myself and keeping a respectable image in front of my people, she certainly did not heed them herself.” He blamed his exhaustion for how he couldn’t stop the bitterness that seeped through his words.

He felt Jungwoo’s hand come down to grip his shoulder in silent comfort.

“As for what we’ve decided to do,” Taeyong continued, “Joohyun, Taeil, and I knew without having to discuss it that the only way we are going to be able to continue the peace talks without another outburst like that, is if she no longer partakes in them.”

He could feel shock ripple through the room. The hand Jungwoo had on his shoulder tightened and Jaemin’s eyes widened. Only Doyoung looked as though he’d somewhat expected it.

“I know,” Taeyong said, not giving the others a chance to speak; he was too tired to have this argument again. “But my mother is…” for all he’d thought about this today, all he’d said about it, it was still difficult to phrase it ‒ especially when his mind was hazy. “She’s not stable. It would be a risk to have her in the peace talks so it’s only logical to remove her from the situation.”

“Taeyong, she’s the queen,” Jungwoo said, as though Taeyong didn’t know that.

“Neither the Ziyou king or queen is in attendance, so hers is not necessary either,” Taeyong answered easily, parroting what Joohyun had said hours earlier.

“The peace talks are not being hosted in Ziyou.” Jungwoo wouldn’t let it go.

“You saw what happened today, Jungwoo,” Taeyong sighed. “We can’t have something like that happen again, no matter how rude it may look.”

Jungwoo opened his mouth again, but Taeyong did not want to hear another argument so he used the remaining scraps of his energy to turn and look Jungwoo in the eyes, pulling his face into something stony.

“Mother only wants one thing from the peace talks and she is not sound enough to negotiate for it; she is too emotional. You were there, Jungwoo; you know this. She doesn’t care about trade or borders or monetary compensation. She used to care; she used to oversee everything herself but not after my father was killed.” He hated how clinical he sounded to his own ears. “She only cares about finding his killer now and she’s become blinded by her obsession with it.”

Silence took over the room for a few moments and Taeyong was grateful for it.

“Have you at least come up with an excuse for her absence?”

Taeyong sighed before he responded. “We’ll say that she’ll be attending to other matters in the kingdom, which she will. My siblings and I have given some of our responsibilities to her so that she’ll be occupied and we will be better focused on the talks. We’ve made sure she’ll spend a lot of time out of the castle, visiting the people. It’ll make her look benevolent. She’s also going to be organising the medal ceremony and my courting ball. We’ll keep her busy.”

“She’s the queen, not a toddler.” Jungwoo’s voice cut through the fog in Taeyong’s mind like a blade.

“A queen who threw a tantrum in court today.” His exasperation had turned into biting anger and Taeyong almost felt bad for the way Jungwoo recoiled, an emotion in his eyes Taeyong couldn’t name. He blamed the exhaustion for how he could not find enough regret inside himself to apologise.

The others in the room were all avoiding his gaze but Taeyong could tell they were shocked at the way he had talked about his mother. He was, too. But only at the very back of his mind, only very slightly.

It was enough for him to push through the tiredness for a less harsh explanation.

“She was ready to declare another war,” he said, his anger dissipating into something more desperate. “We can’t have another war. We wouldn’t survive it. And it would only take another incident like the one today to convince her to start one.”

More silence. It was thicker this time, though and everyone was breathing very deeply.

“It would really be that easy to start another war?” Jungwoo said finally.

“Yes.”

Jungwoo nodded slowly, as though he were processing. It was a sobering reality.

"Do you want us to report what happened with the Ziyou?" Chenle asked, his voice hesitant.

Taeyong didn't, he really didn't. He wanted to wait until morning and listen then. He wanted, more than anything, for everyone to leave and for him to finally sleep.

"Tell me," he said.

Because morning would bring more problems. He would have to have a conversation with the Ziyou and attend the award ceremony and his lessons, which had been put on hold during the war, would resume. He could not indulge in the luxury of sleep.

“Prince Yukhei didn’t move for a long time after you left, not until Prince Kun pulled him away. The walk back to Kun’s chambers was silent but as soon we were in there,” Chenle searched around for the words, “he- he exploded. He was shouting and yelling, telling Yukhei that they’d been through this, that he might have condemned us all to another war because he couldn’t keep his anger in check.”

Chenle turned to look at Renjun, as though asking him to continue for him.

“He told Yukhei that he shouldn’t have pushed the queen but Yukhei just said that they couldn’t give the queen what she wants; Kun didn’t disagree.”

Taeyong could feel the others try to make sense of Yukhei’s words, but he couldn’t find it in him to sift through the implications. Maybe he could leave that until morning.

“Instead, Kun just told him that, even if that was the case, he shouldn’t have challenged her in public like that, shouldn't have undermined her authority.”

“Then Yukhei told Kun that he thought Kun believed in transparency and sincerity,” Chenle said, “but Kun just told him that this was politics and that he also believed in thinking before he spoke.”

It wasn’t a surprise that the Ziyou had been raised on the ideals of transparency, Taeyong thought, not with the way Yukhei had acted. He pushed down the faint envy that rose in his chest.

“Kun told him,” Renjun continued, “that he needed to apologise to the queen immediately. And if she didn’t accept it, he’d send him home.”

Taeyong took an involuntary sharp intake of breath. An apology would be necessary, of course. But Yukhei did not know Taeyong’s mother well enough to deliver one without setting her off. Yukhei did not know the intricacies, the techniques. Yukhei did not know that his mother, despite being queen of a court that thrived on secrets and lies, would hold true to her words: she did not wish to be near him. An apology would prove difficult, even if Yukhei was entirely sincere ‒ which Taeyong had no doubt he was ‒ it was unlikely his mother would accept it. 

It would be difficult, but Taeyong would be able to manufacture one. When his mind was clearer ‒ in the morning.

For now, though, the outline of a plan would be sufficient.

“Jungwoo, meet me in the southern garden at seven tomorrow; Chenle, ensure Kun and Yukhei are there, also.” The pair of them nodded. “Jisung, if you could please ask Hyunjin to wake me at dawn.” That would give him at least a few hours of sleep and a couple more to plan exactly how he would go about the conversation with the Ziyou princes.

“There’s one more thing,” Chenle said, voice nervous. Taeyong gave him an encouraging nod, even though he really did not want there to be another thing for him to think about. “Kun doesn’t trust you. He didn’t think I would understand because he used a dialect, but I did. He doesn’t think you’re sincere; he feels like you’re hiding something. And, thusly, the other Ziyou don’t trust you either. Lord Xiao did try to argue in defence of you, but, ultimately, they trust Kun’s judgement.”

Of course Kun didn’t trust him, Taeyong thought. Because it would be far too easy if he did. Another thing he’d have to plan around in his conversation with the Ziyou tomorrow. Sincerity was foreign to him and it seemed that, to someone like Kun, it was obvious even though it shouldn’t have been. Anger at himself grew in his chest, though he was too tired to deal with it.

“Thank you, Chenle,” he said, as though he were grateful for that information ‒ which he was, but he was not glad he needed it.

Chenle smiled slightly, and Taeyong’s words of thanks didn’t seem so empty anymore.

He was tempted to leave it there, to send them all away and revel in the extra minutes of sleep he might be privy to but something ‒ perhaps his conscience ‒ gnawed at him.

“Jaemin, how’s Yuta?”

“He’s doing better,” Jaemin chirped, still energetic despite the late hour. And maybe Taeyong didn’t regret continuing the conversation so much. “Still a bit shaken, but we went for a ride and I think it cleared his head. He should be good for tomorrow, I reckon.”

Taeyong breathed out slowly, glad that, in the midst of all of this bad news, there was perhaps a shred of good.

“Okay, thank you for taking care of him, Jaemin. Please continue to do so and tell me immediately if something happens. Tomorrow will be difficult for us all, I think, so we will have to be careful. Doyoung, you’ve arranged for the Ziyou to have something to do during the ceremony tomorrow?”

It seemed in poor taste to have the Ziyou attend a ceremony dedicated to celebrating those responsible for the deaths of their own people.

Doyoung nodded.

“Jeno and I will take them on a tour of the kingdom. I’ve prepared a scenic route, one where we will avoid any people who may wish the Ziyou harm.”

Taeyong gave him a grateful smile and ignored the concerned look Doyoung gave him in reply.

“Okay, all of you get some sleep. You did well today, even despite the complications.” Perhaps being sincere was not so difficult for him when he was tired. “Thank you.”

With that, the Dreamies bowed to him and exited the room.

Taeyong let his torso fall back onto his bed, so he was lying down. He didn’t have the strength to call for a servant to help prepare him for sleep ‒ nor did he feel he really needed preparation. His exhausted mind easily provided him with the excuse that no one would ever know that their prince had been improper for a single night.

Jungwoo patted his head twice more before Taeyong felt his weight slip off of the bed. He heard two sets of footsteps, and the sound of his door opening.

“So, outfit ideas for the courting ball?”

“Doyoung, I can and will have you executed.”

Doyoung’s cackle pierced through his ears as the door swung shut and Taeyong felt the corners of his mouth twitch up, only very slightly.

  
  


Sleep still clung to his mind as he moved about his room. Hyunjin ‒ his current manservant whilst Chenle took care of the Ziyou ‒ helped him to fasten the clasps of his clothes and laced his boots as Taeyong thought.

Even the pale light of dawn rubbed harshly at his eyes, and his body still yearned for more sleep but he could not spare any more time for it.

The goals of his conversation with the Ziyou were simple: gain Kun’s trust and help Yukhei apologise to his mother. But, in his time, he had found that it was often the simplest tasks that were the most difficult to put into action.

Just as Hyunjin finished brushing his hair, Taeyong saw him try ‒ badly ‒ to stifle a yawn,

“Hyunjin,” he said softly, “go get some sleep. I’m sorry to have awoken you so early.” He truly was sorry, both to Hyunjin and himself. “When you wake up again, ask Jisung for a slice of cake from the kitchens ‒ whatever your favourite is.”

Poorly disguised surprise overtook Hyunjin’s face and Taeyong might have laughed if he wasn’t so tired.

“Th- Thank you, Your Highness,” he stuttered out, bowing deeply.

Taeyong nodded once more as a dismissal, waiting until the door was entirely shut before letting out a deep breath and slumping down slightly in his chair. He had a little over an hour left. It wasn’t that long, but he’d done more in less time. He pushed the fatigue away and sat up straighter. 

 

 

He and Jungwoo walked leisurely through the flower gardens. The paths were twisting, made of small stones and lined with arrays of Meridianam flowers. In the early morning light, they seemed to thrive.

He’d already briefed Jungwoo on his plan, so they walked in an amicable silence, relishing in the light breezes that danced about their skin. Jungwoo was dressed in a pale pink ensemble, with thin gold trimmings running along the edges of the cloths. He always looked at home amongst the flowers, Taeyong thought fondly.

Alone with his friend like this, Taeyong could almost be lulled into relaxing. But something in his gut pushed against it, keeping him on edge even as he maneuvered through gardens which had often been called ‘healing for the soul’. 

There was something to be said for that sentiment, though. If only because in the flower gardens ‒ a place so rife with life and energy ‒ he could feel some of that wade into his blood, as was the nature of his magic. That was the reason he had chosen this place to have this conversation, due to how the invigorating feeling the flowers gave him chased away his fatigue.

They had not been walking for long when they heard a familiar voice, reaching them across the rows of flowers.

“They are simply exquisite!” Yukhei’s voice was excitable, and it was only because Taeyong’s ears were trained to do so that he could pick out the slight wobble of insecurity beneath it. “We don’t have flowers of this colour back home. Yangyang would love to see them; I must show him.”

Yukhei was scared, no doubt worried about upsetting the Queen once more when he apologised to her later. Well, with any luck, Taeyong would calm those qualms.

He and Jungwoo exchanged a brief look as they rounded one of the flower beds, to be met with the sight of Yukhei touching a foxglove plant with clear reverence. Kun stood a step or two behind him, something like endearment in his features. Chenle stood with them, pausing in his tour of the gardens when he saw Taeyong and Jungwoo.

“My Lords.” Taeyong inclined his head and Jungwoo dipped slightly at the waist. Kun responded in like and Yukhei removed his hands from the flower, too quickly. He fidgeted nervously, his feet treading ground.

“You have a beautiful garden, My Lord,” Yukhei said, too loudly. “These flowers are like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

He was addressing Taeyong, but his eyes kept flitting to where Jungwoo stood beside him. Amusement swam in Taeyong’s chest.

“Thank you. My mother prides herself in our gardens. When I was younger, we would spend hours here, taking care of them.” Perhaps it was too bold, to bring up his mother so soon, so suddenly. Going by Kun and Yukhei’s shocked expressions, they certainly thought so. It would help him transition into what he actually wanted to talk about, though. And it permitted him sincerity, as he let his very real nostalgia seep into his words.

“Upon our birth, each of my siblings and I had a bed of flowers plotted for us according to the moon we were born under. We were responsible for taking care of it until our eighteenth year, when we would pick one for use in our coming of age ceremony.” His had been a bleak affair. He hadn’t had much time to take care of his flowers during the war and so, a year into it, he had attended his own celebration with a dying delphinium woven into his hair.

He paused for a moment, gazing wistfully at the flowers that surrounded them, lilting slightly in the wind. It was almost frightening how genuine the emotion was.

“You have a similar tradition, do you not, My Lord?” He tore his gaze away from the gently swaying flowers to look Kun in the eye. He gestured for them to walk, and the group of them set off at a slow pace along the path.

Kun cleared his throat. “Yes, though, in our country, the person coming of age is presented with a flower that their parents think is befitting of their personality.”

Taeyong raised his eyebrows, asking silently.

“A peony,” Kun answered him.

“A fitting choice,” Taeyong agreed.

They continued to walk for a while in an agreeable silence. Ahead of them, Yukhei and Jungwoo were engaged in a conversation about something. It was all according to the plan Taeyong had set out: Jungwoo would get Yukhei to relax a little more, open up, before Taeyong spoke with him. In the meantime, Taeyong would work on trying to get Kun to like him. It was proving difficult, though. The air felt stilted around them.

They spoke about frivolous, unimportant topics and it was pleasant enough, but the faint sense of distrust did not leave Kun’s eyes. It was disappointing, but not altogether surprising. Trust took more time to be earned than the length of a single conversation. Though, Taeyong thought, Jungwoo seemed to be doing pretty well with Yukhei.

Yukhei certainly did not seem as worried as before, speaking loudly and his smile widening every time Jungwoo laughed. Pride rippled through Taeyong.

“You said your mother prided herself on these gardens?”

“Yes.” Taeyong directed his gaze back at Kun. “My father designed the arrangement of the entire garden himself, and, if there’s one thing she adores without question, it’s anything my father did.”

It was, perhaps, even touchier to mention his father but Taeyong found he couldn’t help it. He argued that it was for strategic purposes but he couldn’t pretend that he did not share his mother’s feelings of pride.

It seemed that Kun didn’t know what to say, but Taeyong did not mind, for he didn’t know what he wanted to hear. 

Jungwoo and Yukhei drew to a stop in front of them, as Yukhei stopped to admire a flower, and they followed suit. It was only then that Taeyong realised that they had not taken the route he and Jungwoo had agreed upon, but had rather walked more into the centre of the gardens. It wasn’t the end of the world, he supposed, though it was strange that Jungwoo had not gone down the right path. Then again, he thought, considering the way Jungwoo was staring at Yukhei, maybe it was not entirely far-fetched that he had been distracted.

Neither did Taeyong find it surprising that Jungwoo had been drawn here, where the first flower he had ever bloomed with magic ‒ a snapdragon ‒ still stood, taller than the others around it. Taeyong could feel the magic floating lightly in the air around them. It was merely the remnants of a spell cast long ago ‒ barely there ‒ but he could still feel it lingering.

It was a peculiar ability of Taeyong’s that he could feel magic ‒ neither Doyoung nor Jungwoo could. At least, not when it was a subtle as this. They could only feel strong, potent magic. Magic that tore through the air and flooded the senses.

Kun levelled Yukhei with a look, and the joy in Yukhei’s demeanor gave way to nervousness. He seemed to gather himself and took a deep breath before meeting Taeyong’s eyes,

“My Lord, I would like to apologise for my outburst in the peace talk yesterday. It was rude and improper. I am sorry for violating the trust of your country by breaking one of your laws. Though, please believe me when I say that it was entirely unintentional. Magic can be difficult to control when one is too passionate. I assure you that it will not happen again, and I will be more than professional in our following talks.”

It was a good apology: concise and wholly sincere. His mother would not like it; she would not believe it. She did not believe anyone who wielded magic, and she did not trust anyone, without exception. When your own court was made of lies, it was hard not to believe that everyone else’s was the same.

“Thank you, Yukhei. I believe you,” Taeyong said, and relief swallowed both Kun and Yukhei’s faces before they could disguise it. “I would also like to offer my apologies on behalf of my mother. What happened yesterday was regretful for both parties, and she should not have acted as she did. Please forget what she said, you are still very much welcome in our country. The war has put strain on my mother, but I assure you that she wishes for peace just as much as we do.”

“Thank you for your graciousness, My Lord.”

Taeyong shook his head. “Thank you for yours.”

“We also intend to apologise directly to your mother, Taeyong,” Kun said. “Would you know of an opportunity for us to do so?”

Taeyong did know of an opportunity, had timed one perfectly.

“She should be in these very gardens later this afternoon to pick flowers before our ceremony. You should be able to catch her before you leave for your tour.” It was difficult for his mother to be angry when she was surrounded by the legacy of the man she had loved, and Taeyong was counting on it.

Kun thanked him and Taeyong paused for a moment, pretending to think over his words.

“If I may offer you some advice,” he said, “in speaking to my mother, please do not mention magic or my father’s death. Additionally, it would probably be wise to be as vague as possible.”

Yukhei nodded. Taeyong could practically hear him thinking, hear him planning out what he would say.

“Thank you, Taeyong.”

Taeyong shared a look with Jungwoo, nodding very slightly.

“I also would like to inform you, before anyone else,” Jungwoo said, his voice soft, “in the hopes that you will better understand if you hear it from us, that the Queen will no longer be partaking in the peace talks.” 

Kun and Yukhei did not even make an attempt at hiding the shock that overtook them. Kun’s mouth fell open and then closed again in an aborted question. Taeyong cut in before he could gather his senses.

“Now that the war has finished, there are many matters requiring her attention both inside and outside the castle. The kingdom needs their queen close to them in times such as these. My mother trusts my siblings and me to oversee the talks much in the same way your own parents do.”

A beat passed between them.

“I understand,” Kun said finally.

And, with that, the conversation was finished. Taeyong would have let out a sigh of relief had he been alone. He started walking again, engaging with Kun in a conversation about a lighter topic as they made their way along the path once more. They made it a couple of steps before Taeyong realised that Jungwoo and Yukhei had not followed them. 

He turned around and saw that they were unmoving. Jungwoo was watching Yukhei with something unreadable ‒ maybe satisfaction ‒ in his eyes. Yukhei himself was staring at Jungwoo’s snapdragon, reverence clear on his face along with something else Taeyong couldn’t distinguish.

He cleared his throat and that seemed to shake them from their respective reveries. They all resumed the walk back to the castle, though Taeyong did not miss the last glance Yukhei threw at the snapdragon.

  
  


 

The hall was decorated with banners of deep red hanging on the walls. Taeyong stood, third in a line of four, upon a raised stage at the front of the room. It was packed full of soldiers, each dressed in their ceremonial uniforms ‒ too hot for the way sunlight seeped into the hall.

His mother stood in the centre of the stage, reading out the names of soldiers and congratulating them for their part in the war.

It was called a celebration of achievement, but it was clear what it really was for every soldier in that hall. It was a reminder of the people they had lost, the friends that had bled out in their laps and the friends whose corpses they had had to abandon on the battlefield so that they would not join them. It was a reminder of all the blood on their hands they had tried pointlessly to scrub away. It was a reminder of what they were reminded of each night, in their sleep. But this time it was in broad daylight, in front of hundreds of people where they could not hide and cry and repent.

This time they had to pretend they were proud of what they had done.

When they received their medals, they bowed and thanked the Queen. They bowed to Taeyong and his siblings and thanked them as though they were grateful for the experiences that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. And they would take their medals, pin them to the front of their uniforms and be forced by tradition to parade them around. A souvenir of the lives they had taken, attached to them permanently. As though that was what they wanted: to remember.

It seemed cruel, Taeyong thought. But he could offer them nothing but thanks on behalf of the kingdom.

Jaehyun received several medals, in a variety of colours for his variety of achievements. He was called up a second time to be given his late father’s medals. He gripped them too tightly and his smile was too tense but he took them dutifully nonetheless. When he returned to his place among the soldiers, Yuta slipped his hand into Jaehyun’s own: a silent comfort.

Yuta bowed deeply when he was called. He held Hansol’s medal with far more care than he did his own.

Donghyuck was given a special award. He had not been a knight, but he had been near enough to warrant a medal cast in bronze and engraved with his initials. When he faced the siblings, he gave Mark a private smile and Taeyong could not help the warmth that spread in his chest

Johnny was called up almost last; the only people to follow him would be Sunmi and Hyunwoo and the pride Taeyong felt at that seemed inappropriate.

Johnny walked up to the stage with a power to each of his strides. He took his medals with grace, and paused before he turned to the siblings. When he finally did, he met Taeyong’s eyes directly, and did not look away. It was a challenge, one that Taeyong didn’t shy away from. When Johnny turned to leave, it was with a smug look in his eyes too reminiscent of the Johnny Taeyong had known years ago.

He kept his eyes on Johnny, even as Hyunwoo received his medals. Johnny wasn’t looking at him any more, though. Johnny kept looking down at the medals pinned to his uniform. He looked overwhelmed now that he wasn’t the sole attention of the entire hall, and disbelief was evident in his wide eyes.

It was jarring, Taeyong thought, the difference between Johnny and Yuta. Whereas Yuta’s medal was the physicalisation of all the deaths ‒ both Meridianam and Ziyou ‒ he had been responsible for, Johnny’s were the physicalisations of his genuine acts of heroism. For Johnny, his medals represented all that he was today compared to the boy in too-small clothes Hyunwoo had picked up from the streets.

Johnny might not have been proud of all he had done, but he was proud of the person he had become. Johnny, who had once wanted nothing more than to play music, had found a purpose in violence and Taeyong could only hope that Johnny knew that swinging a sword was not all he was good for.

Taeyong focused his gaze back on his mother when Johnny looked up and caught his eye for the smallest moment. 

Hyunwoo was still standing there, uniform full with a new number of medals.

“I thank you all for your service to the crown and your obedience and bravery during the past five years,” Hyunwoo was saying. “And, having given over two decades of service to Meridianam as Captain of the Royal Guard, it is finally time for me to step down and resign my place to a younger person whom I trust to take on the mantle and serve the kingdom just as faithfully as I have.”

A blanket of confusion and surprise settled over the soldiers in the room, each of them looking among themselves wildly.

“I hope you will treat him with the same respect you have given me these past years. He is tremendously qualified and will make our armies stronger. With that, I introduce you to your new Captain of the Royal Guard: congratulations, Sir John Seo.”

Taeyong was the one to begin the applause, for everyone else was too shocked. They joined in slowly, one-by-one as they processed the news and, soon enough, all the eyes in the hall had fallen to where Johnny stood. His mouth was agape and his eyes were stuck on Hyunwoo. It was only when Jaehyun clapped him on the shoulder, pushing him forwards did he jerk out of it and start to walk towards the stage. His steps were shakier than before; it was clear he was trying to gain control of his limbs again.

As he passed by Taeyong, they shared a fleeting look and Taeyong tried his best to give him an encouraging smile.

There was a vague sense of outrage emanating from the older, noble soldiers in the hall who were clapping distinctly slower than the others. Johnny could feel their gazes on him, and Taeyong hoped he would not take them to heart. He clapped harder to make up for it.

Hyunwoo pulled Johnny into a hug, which Johnny took a moment to respond to. Hyunwoo then removed the golden pin adorned to his uniform and fastened it to the lapel of Johnny’s. He clapped Johnny once on the shoulder, before gesturing to the Queen.

Johnny, movement still slightly stunted, turned towards Taeyong’s mother and dropped to one knee. The Queen made the sign of the Southern Star over his head before speaking.

“Do you, John Seo pledge to serve the crown and kingdom of Meridianam and take responsibility over its troops and soldiers until the day you relinquish your title?”

“Yes, My Queen.”

“Do you pledge to put the kingdom and its wellbeing over all else, to value the word of your royal family above anyone else?

“Yes, My Queen.”

“You knelt as Sir John, and under the Southern Star, you climbed in rank. You rise as Captain Seo of the Meridianam Royal Guard, the highest rank and honour our military can bestow..”

Johnny stood and applause sounded again through the hall. Taeyong could not see Johnny’s face. But he hoped it was as proud, as happy, as Taeyong himself felt.

  
  


 

It was tradition that, the night of their appointment, the new Captain would sit under the light of the Southern Star and think about the changes they would implement.

There was nothing in the tradition that said they had to be alone.

With Renjun’s help, Taeyong snuck easily out of the castle, leaving the documents that lay on his desk for when he returned. Desire would be the death of him one day, Taeyong thought, but he couldn’t help it. His next few days would be hectic; he’d scarcely have time to breathe, let alone interact with Johnny.

He walked to a familiar clearing atop a hill, just beyond the castle walls and found Johnny sitting on the ground, staring pensively at the sky.

Taeyong took a moment just to look, something he had been deprived of for five years and could not resist when he was finally given the chance, out of reach of the eyes that were usually on him constantly.

The Southern Star was the brightest force of nature in the kingdom, and it illuminated the hill better than the moon ever could. It was not always present but, this close to the summer solstice, it was vividly visible in the sky.

The light cast itself onto Johnny’s face, the white light bewitching as it fell on his tan skin. His beauty chased the breath out of Taeyong’s lungs as he stared. His hair was messy, as though he’d been running his hands through it, but it cascaded gently to frame his face and caught the light easily.

And Taeyong, for all the paintings and jewels and fineries he possessed, did not think he had ever seen anything to equal Johnny as he was in that moment. Taeyong told himself that, whatever regret he would feel later for giving in to his desire, it would be worth it for how Johnny looked just then.

“Congratulations, Captain Seo,” he said softly, but it seemed to cut sharply through the peace of the night.

Johnny’s head whipped around to look at him, and Taeyong might have laughed if the expression on Johnny’s face didn’t put him on edge. It was guarded, unreadable. And Taeyong was used to that with everyone else, but not Johnny ‒ never Johnny.

“What are you doing here?” Johnny asked, and it was more accusatory than inquisitive.

“I wanted to offer you my commendations. You worked very hard, Johnny. You must be proud.”

Johnny scoffed, but Taeyong didn’t understand why. Johnny  _ was  _ proud ‒ Taeyong had seen it himself earlier that day. Taeyong wasn’t used to not being in the know; he found that he did not like it very much.

The silence grew between them, thick and stifling, but Taeyong didn’t want to be the one to break it.

“I was proud to be a soldier, Taeyong,” Johnny said finally, looking back at the sky again. “I was proud that I was decorated and commended for it but they never let me forget what I was.”

He looked at Taeyong again, his gaze piercing now.

“Did you know that I am the only Captain in the history of Meridianam to be a low-born?” Taeyong did know that, of course he did, but he felt that Johnny would not appreciate an answer and so he kept his mouth shut.

“Do you really think anyone is going to respect my authority? When they’re all lords and ladies and high-borns and I’m just the peasant kid who got lucky? I was respected as a soldier because I could beat them all in a fight but that won’t matter now.”

“Johnny,” Taeyong tried to be placating, and fought back the urge to cross the space and pull him into his arms, “you are the single most qualified person for this position. You fought so hard and if there’s anyone who deserves it, not just due to merit but also because of their character it’s yo-”

“Oh, lay off it, Taeyong,” Johnny cut him off. Taeyong’s mouth remained hanging open. It was insolent to speak to a prince like that, but Taeyong had always had a weakness for Johnny. “Stop pretending like you care when you’ve barely even looked at me since I’ve been back. Don’t pretend you don’t care about rank when you won’t even make eye contact with me in public. Stop playing around with my emotions; I’m not one of your court puppets.”

Johnny pushed himself to his feet. He stalked past Taeyong with quick steps. It took a moment for Taeyong’s mind to catch up.

“Where are you going?” he called out, and he hated how desperate his voice sounded but didn’t do anything to stop it. “You can’t leave.”

“They’ve already broken tradition by making me captain, I’m sure they won’t care if I break another one,” Johnny shouted back without looking over his shoulder.

Taeyong searched around his mind for something to say but came up blank. Johnny had nearly reached the bottom of the hill when he finally turned back around to look Taeyong in the eye with a defiance no one had dared to before.

“I get that you’re a prince, Taeyong, but I also thought we were friends.”

And with that, Johnny turned and stalked away, his figure disappearing too quickly into the night.

Taeyong, though, stood rooted to the spot and unable to decipher what he was feeling. It was something like longing and regret but also something like anger and all he really knew was, was that it hurt, burned the inside of his throat and sunk into his chest. It clogged his mind and pounded violently at his skull.

The breeze seemed colder than it had minutes ago, raising the hairs on his arms. The quiet grew less comforting and more eerie. And the Southern Star’s light felt too harsh ‒ too exposing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyy so we finally got a johnyong interaction and it was angsty,, sorrry
> 
> thank you for reading!! please validate me by leaving kudos and comments
> 
> feel free to come talk to be about tmyc on [twitter](https://twitter.com/whatisanult) or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/whatisanult)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always the biggest biggest biggest thanks to caitlin who continues to support and proofread this fic even though she has no clue who nct are ly xx
> 
> hope you enjoy this long'un <3
> 
> now playing: to be a princess from barbie princess and the pauper

“Utara greeting customs and behavioural expectations.”

“A low bow, stand with hands clasped behind the back, speak when spoken to and don’t smile too much,” Taeyong recited easily.

Lessons were draining, but at least the constant assault on his memory didn’t leave room for him to think of other things.

“Anatolia.”

“A kiss to either cheek, smile lightly, speak when spoken to.”

His teacher, Lord Kim, was a miserable man. A tall, spindly scholar Doyoung told him cared more about memorising outdated texts than trying to learn anything new. He wore the same purple uniform all of Meridianam’s scholars did, but he made it look dull and drab.

“Dysi.”

“Wait for them to approach, offer them my hand to let them kiss it, hands joined in front, speak when spoken to.”

Lord Kim paced up and down the length of the study. It was a small room, relatively speaking. A lot of portraits of past princes and princesses with their spouses were mounted on the walls. Incentives, Taeyong supposed. There wasn’t much sunlight, either, which was rare for any room in the castle.

“Occidens.”

“I’m not going to marry into Occidens. Joohyun already did that,” Taeyong said before he could stop himself. Internally, he cursed at himself. Usually, he was better at keeping his thoughts to himself but the past few days had just been so, so tiring.

“Your Highness,” Lord Kim said, standing still so he could pin Taeyong down with a disapproving look. It took more strength than it should have for Taeyong not to groan. “Prince Jinyoung’s family are set to be at the ball, also. Do you want them to think Princess Joohyun’s family have no manners? Do you want to embarrass the kingdom in that way?”

It occurred to Taeyong, as it so often did whenever any of his teachers spoke, that Taeyong occupied a much higher position in the court than they did, that Taeyong was far more powerful than this croaky old man. But then Taeyong would remember his mother’s face back when he was nine and tried to have one of his teachers exiled because they told him his posture was disgraceful and that he should be ashamed of it and Taeyong would quickly bite his tongue. Because, he may be the Prince of Whispers, with the court in his palm, but she was the Queen. And his mother.

And he would remember that, however sad it was, this man had dedicated his entire life to studying the cultures of other countries for the sole purpose of marrying princes and princesses off. And so maybe Taeyong should listen to him. Even if he would rather have him exiled.

“Bow, shake their hand and avoid direct eye contact,” Taeyong said, in lieu of answering his teacher’s question. “Speak when spoken to.”

Lord Kim nodded and continued pacing.

They prattled through more countries and Taeyong rattled off more customs but it was all second nature to him. His tongue moved on its own, working its way through each country that would be attending his courting ball. And maybe he should have been proud, but that meant his mind was free to wander and that was always a dangerous thing.

It wandered to the training grounds, where he knew Johnny must be now. It wandered to the hilltop four nights ago and it didn’t leave. Johnny hadn’t acknowledged him since, not even in a professional setting. In a way ‒ a horrible, horrible way ‒ it felt almost as though Johnny were back at war. But at least that had been a reason Taeyong could understand. Maybe it was even worse that Johnny was now so close, because the silence was a choice this time.

It was a selfish train of thought, and one Taeyong didn’t want to entertain. But it crept back every time he allowed his mind to grow the slightest bit idle. It was stupid and childish that his desire to fix things with Johnny overruled more important matters and yet it persisted.

“Your Highness?”

Perhaps he had wandered too far.

“I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

“Then reign it in.” Taeyong briefly wondered if Lord Kim had been the same teacher who had taught his mother all these things ‒ he was certainly old enough ‒ for the way he spoke to royalty seemed to suggest he had been around long enough to see them all as children still.

Kim sighed and repeated himself as though it pained him to do so. Taeyong fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Tell me your plan for the ball.”

“Arrive at eight o’clock sharp,” Taeyong recited, as he had for the past three days. “Dance to a waltz with my mother and siblings first. Go get a drink and let potential suitors introduce themselves to me. If they ask me to dance, which they will, dance.”

Kim raised an eyebrow, telling him to continue.

“Don’t leave the hall for any reason; don’t engage in any controversial conversation, and try to make as many people as possible fall in love with me.”

It sounded stupid to say it aloud, and that feeling didn’t diminish no matter how many times he said it. His entire personality had been crafted for the sole purpose of making people fall in love with him. Whether romantically, so he could marry into their court and take it over, or whether it was love out of respect and admiration, so his people would not betray him, he was made to be loved. Made to be loved only superficially, though. As a projection of something perfect and nothing more. As an image, not a person.

Kim nodded again; it was the closest he got to impressed.

“Languages.”

Taeyong very nearly groaned. Languages were one of the things he found difficult to grasp. His tongue formed his own language too easily, so much so that foreign sounds were made hard. The only reason he was as proficient in the common tongue as he was, was that Johnny had already known it when they met, and Johnny was a far better teacher than anyone they actually employed to teach.

And as Lord Kim listed off countries once more, and Taeyong blockily stated their greetings, his mind wandered again. He didn’t do anything to stop it.

  


“I’ll see you again tomorrow, Your Highness,” Kim said, bowing before he left the room.

Taeyong stood up slowly, stretching his neck and clicking his back into place where it had grown stiff from two hours of rigidly straight posture. He couldn’t wait, he thought bitterly. He couldn’t wait for another two identical hours the next day, because he obviously had nothing better to do.

He exited the room, and almost walked straight into Joohyun. She had her crown ‒ a loud, ostentatious piece ‒ on and a slight strain to her smile that gave away her nerves. Beyond that, she looked as majestic and untouchable as always. Taeyong wondered if her lessons had been much different from his. For she was set to rule her court in a public fashion, and Taeyong was doomed to rule his from the shadows.

“There you are,” she said brightly, but Taeyong could tell she was overcompensating, He linked his arm through hers as a small comfort; it wasn’t an action that would bring much attention between siblings. “Are you ready?”

Taeyong felt as though she were only asking in order to avoid the question herself and he nodded more out of reassurance than truth.

“How was your lesson?”

“The same as always.” It was perhaps the most pitifully true thing he had ever said and his sister laughed in a way that suggested she knew that all too well.

“It will all be worth it, I promise,” she said, too earnestly for something so emptily hopeful. “Yours, at least, won’t be entirely in vain.” She said it lightly now, but Taeyong knew she had been bitter three years ago when her marriage had been a rushed alliance rather than a formal ritualistic decision and all her years of lessons had been forgone for the sake of urgency. She could joke about it now, though. She could joke because, by her own confession, she had fallen in love with her husband over the course of their union. So, maybe, there was hope for Taeyong’s own impending marriage.

She pulled him closer, their shoulders touching now. 

“Is there anyone you have your eye on?” She asked, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“That doesn’t matter does it,” Taeyong said, too seriously. He quickly added, in a lighter tone, “all that matters is that everyone has their eye on me. Isn’t that the point of it all?”

Joohyun laughed, too prettily to have believed him. “Trust me, Yong, no one is going to be able to keep their eyes off of you. You’re my brother for a reason, you know.”

They approached the East Hall, and heard voices begin to fill the air. Taeyong felt Joohyun’s grip around his arm grow too tight.

“You’re going to be the belle of the ball, Yong,” she said, as though mindless chatter would delay the inevitable.

They drew to a stop right before the doors.

“It’s going to be fine, Joohyun,” Taeyong said when the pause stretched on for too long. “You have all of us behind you; you’re not alone.” She nodded but something told Taeyong that she hadn’t really heard him, her eyes still fixed on the doors.

He used his grip on his sister to turn her so that they were facing each other.

“Not all of your lessons were in vain,” he said. “Not the important ones.” _Not the ones where they taught you to be a queen._

Joohyun nodded and turned back to face the hall with a renewed conviction. Taeyong tilted his head to the guards by the entrance, and they pulled open the doors for them.

Joohyun stepped forwards first, their arms falling out of their link and Taeyong followed half a step behind her.

Silence fell across the hall when she entered, and Taeyong could feel the tension, the fear, They all remembered what had happened the last time they had been gathered in this hall and were terrified it would repeat itself.

The only person who seemed unafraid was, surprisingly, Yukhei, who stood at his chair with a strong sense of determination. Taeyong met his eyes briefly and Yukhei nodded: a thank you and a message that he was in control of himself now. Taeyong allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

Joohyun walked to her own chair, where it now stood at the centre of their family’s table and placed her hands delicately on the wooden surface. Taeyong watched with something like jealousy as Jinyoung’s hand came to rest gently above hers in silent support. Johnny stood on the far side of the hall, in a line with all the other soldiers.

“Please, sit,” Joohyun said, her voice the perfect blend of a command and a request.

Taeyong followed the instruction at the same everyone else in the hall did.

The meeting started the same way the last one did, but Joohyun’s voice was far steadier than his mother’s had been.

As Joohyun neared the end of their list of demands, Taeyong could feel the tension grow even more.

“And finally,” Joohyun said, her voice unfaltering despite the heaviness in the air, “we ask that you identify all those directly responsible for the death of our late King Iseun and turn them over to us, so that we may charge them with treason and punish them accordingly.”

Taeyong could feel the room take a collective breath and hold it. He could feel every set of eyes in the hall move unsubtly to where Yukhei sat. But Yukhei seemed unbothered yet still concentrated. Taeyong was impressed.

The very slight change to the wording of this final request had taken much thought on Taeyong’s part but it seemed to make a world of difference. It cushioned the demand somewhat. Though Taeyong was certain that his mother would have disliked it had she been there. It was a good thing she trusted her children enough to let them take care of the talks without overseeing everything beforehand.

“We shall take some time to discuss each other’s respective demands amongst ourselves,” Joohyun was saying, “and reconvene in a week to officially begin the talks. Thank you for your patience, you are all dismissed.”

The room came alive with noise and movement then. Taeyong stood and followed his sister and her husband out of the hall. Before he left, he could see Meridianam politicians each going to either Doyoung or Jungwoo and having a brief conversation with them before handing them a varying number of sheets of parchment.

Taeyong sighed inwardly. Those would be a pain to sort through later.

  


“Injunnie!”

Renjun turned away from Jaemin to see Chenle bounding towards him. He near skidded to a stop and Jaemin reached out to steady him on his feet, but Chenle did not spare him a glance.

“Sicheng’s looking for you.”

Renjun felt his stomach drop.

“Why?” It was difficult not to stammer, difficult to push the words out through the thickness building in his throat.

“I don’t know exactly. I think he wants to talk to you.”

Coldness ran through his blood. His mind went into overdrive and he couldn’t think, let alone move or hide or run. Panic. Just panic.

“Injunnie.” Jaemin’s hands were on his shoulders now.

“He can’t find me,” Renjun managed to get out, but only just. His voice probably didn’t even qualify as a whisper with how weak it was.

“He won’t,” Jaemin said, confident in the same way he always was. There was something comforting in that, in Jaemin being a constant despite the chaos of his mind. 

“The shadows won’t work; he uses them too.”

“We don’t need shadows to hide. He doesn't know this castle; we do.”

There was truth to that, and Renjun found consolation in it. Especially coming from Jaemin, who knew the castle and its passageways better than anyone else.

Renjun nodded stiffly and felt Jaemin lace their fingers together.

“Come on,” he said, leading him down the hallway. “Chenle, try to distract Sicheng but don’t worry if you can’t.” Jaemin turned to look at Renjun and flashed him a blinding smile. “He won’t find us either way.”

And Renjun let Jaemin pull him wherever he deemed it best to go.

  


Nerves shook Johnny’s hands where they dangled at his side. He felt too hot and too cold all at once. The sun was bright but it didn’t feel warm.

Jaehyun put a hand on his shoulder, but it felt more stifling than reassuring.

The air was biting on the training grounds as he looked out at the soldiers ‒ his soldiers now, he supposed.

He had spent the last few days being taught the ins and outs of being Captain by Hyunwoo, who looked as though the entire situation of passing on his title was incredibly bittersweet. Johnny did not share that sentiment.

Fear wasn’t a foreign emotion to Johnny. Fear was a given when you lived five years knowing that it was so easy to die. That the slightest mistake would be your last. That your friends bore the same risks and you might not even know until days later.

This was something different. Fear, yes, but a more particular type of fear. He was learning all about new types of fear recently. There was that hollow, angry fear that Taeyong had changed beyond recognition and he would never get back the friend he once had. There was that wide, expansive fear reminiscent of impending doom that the country was on the brink of another war and he would have to go back. There was nothing quite as terrifying as returning to the place that you only just managed to escape from.

And then there was this. This fear was something close to anxiety and it manifested as shaking and a shortness of breath. He rarely had these feelings of… of inadequacy. Confidence was his trademark and to suddenly doubt himself was jolting. But these people, these people who would make judgements about him, who would look at his lack of lordship and sneer, who would make taunts about him only getting his position because he was Hyunwoo’s ‘favourite’, they drew it out of him.

Lined up in the grounds were not new recruits exactly, but naïve ones. None of them had fought in the war. They’d been in training for the last year or so but none of them had ever seen an actual battlefield. The sons and daughters of respected lords who wanted their children to become honourable knights but didn’t want them to get hurt.

They were the exact type of people that Johnny hated the most.

They were the type of people who measured by birthright rather than merit. And that new fear in Johnny grew even deeper,

None of them were standing with the discipline that they were supposed to and Johnny felt a scowl take over his face. Hyunwoo has assured him that they were good kids, that they’d follow his orders, but that seemed more and more unlikely the longer he looked at them.

Hyunwoo had also lectured him about how respect was earned over time, and how he would need to give the troops time to adjust to the new change in authority. Hyunwoo had told him that it had taken him time to become a Captain people trusted with their lives, but, despite Hyunwoo’s best efforts, Johnny couldn’t stop thinking about how it would have been so much easier if he were a lord or a count or anything else.

(Or maybe a prince, though that was a stupid desire for an entirely different, far-fetched, and ridiculous reason.)

These new types of fear were formidable. But if war taught him one thing, it was that the only way to deal with fear was to face it straight-on, bold and uncaring. Only cowards ran from battle.

With Jaehyun at his shoulder, he held his head up high and straightened the medals pinned to his uniform and his younger self revelled in the ability to look down his nose at rich kids with flowery titles.

They straightened when they saw him approaching and their arms fell to their sides. But their faces melted into sneers.

Johnny really hated rich kids.

Hyunwoo hadn’t accompanied him. He made some big deal about Johnny needing ‘freedom’ and how he didn’t want people to think he was ‘holding Johnny’s hand’.

“They need to see you have a head of your own,” he’d said, tapping Johnny’s head with too much strength.

And so, here Johnny was, armed with nothing but Jaehyun, Hyunwoo’s vaguely inspiring words, and his own head. It didn’t help that his head was swimming with insecurities and Hyunwoo’s lessons had been unclear. At least Jaehyun had an inherited title, that had to help him in some way.

“Right,” Johnny said. “I don’t know what level any of you are at yet, but I want to find out. Have you all warmed up?”

A drone of “yes, sir,” rippled through them weakly.

“I’m sorry,” Johnny said, “did you not hear me? Have you all warmed up yet?”

“Yes, sir,” they barked out.

“Better. Don’t make me ask twice next time. Alright. Pair off and spar.”

“Yes, sir.”

The crowd dispersed, following his orders and relief crashed through him.

“That went well,” Jaehyun said into his ear. “Told you there was nothing to worry about. They respect you as a soldier.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, even if he couldn’t shake that feeling of dread.

They walked around the space, surveying the soldiers and correcting technique where required. They seemed to be more reluctant to follow Johnny’s advice than Jaehyun’s, but Johnny hoped it was all just in his head.

He stood by and watched two of what looked like the eldest spar. They were decent enough, if they relied more on brute force than technique. They seemed to know each other well, blocking the other’s moves before they could land and Johnny had to wonder whether it was out of fighting instinct or just familiarity. The same way he knew Jaehyun would always feign right before digging his left heel into his opponent’s stomach. Jaehyun’s father hadn’t been the biggest fan of playing fair.

“Alright, you two, stop,” he said, and they obeyed, panting heavily. “Names?”

“Chan Bang.”

“Woojin Kim.”

“Right, Woojin, your grip is too tight. You need a looser hold for flexibility otherwise you’ll be too static. Chan, your footwork is all over the place. Where you put your feet isn’t a lottery, you need to know where you’re going to put them so you can throw your opponent off balance whilst keeping yours.”

“Got it, sir,” Chan said, something insolent to his voice, “I’ll watch my feet instead of my opponent.”

The pair of them snickered slightly and Johnny felt that fear again.

“Ideally,” he said, refusing to let it show, “you would know where your feet are without having to constantly look at them. But maybe we can build up to that if it’s too complex for you at the moment.” The fear was morphing into anger ‒ something stemming from insecurity ‒ too quickly for him to control it. He could feel Jaehyun place a hand on his back in a silent warning.

“Sorry, sir.” But he said _sir_ mockingly, like his title was a joke. “Not all of us are used to looking at our feet.” Johnny took in a sharp breath. It was a shitty thing to say, and one he should have expected, one he shouldn’t have given them an opportunity to use. A classic insult for people of Johnny’s class: that they spent their days staring at their own feet because they were either too scared or too aware of their place to look nobles in the eye. 

The others had all stopped sparring now, and were watching the exchange. Johnny needed to make a statement, an example. Needed to show that they couldn’t challenge his authority like that.

“Then maybe you could stand to learn a thing or two from low-borns. Because, right now, a peasant could knock you on your back without breaking a sweat.”

It was perhaps pettier than it should have been, but rage left no room for rationality in Johnny’s mind.

Chan scoffed, and Johnny felt the anger roar in his gut.

“You do not speak to your Captain in this way,” he said. “If you cannot respect your commanding officer, then you are a poor soldier and unfit to serve. Please remove yourself from my training grounds until such a time that you learn to respect those of a higher rank than yourself.”

“A captain isn’t higher than a lord.”

“It is when you stand in that captain’s barracks in hopes of becoming one of his soldiers. Besides, you are not a lord, not yet. You will not be a lord until your father is dead because the only way for you to get a title is to take it from your father’s corpse.”

Maybe it was too harsh. Johnny didn’t care. If he couldn’t get their respect, maybe he’d have to teach them what is was to feel fear. He had been too angry recently, and distantly he thought of Taeyong and something ugly flared in his chest.

Chan and Woojin looked as though they were about to argue, their mouths falling open before they closed again. Relief flooded through Johnny when they turned on their heels and stalked off, their swords clattering to the ground.

“Donghyuck!”

Donghyuck came out of the armoury, where he’d been polishing armour and organising weapons and whatever else he did in there. He was good enough at his job that Johnny didn’t feel the need to question it.

“Take care of these swords, will you?”

Donghyuck, for once in his life, didn’t make some sort of smart-ass quip back so he must have felt the tension, must have known that challenging Johnny in that moment would do nothing but make him look weak. Donghyuck picked them up, the clang they made resounding in the quiet, and carried them into the armoury.

“That goes for all of you,” Johnny addressed the crowd. “If you cannot respect me, you cannot be a soldier. If you don’t think you can manage it, leave.”

He held his breath. No one moved, but he could tell some of them wanted to. Maybe they would in the future but that was a problem he would solve when it came to it. Maybe when they were braver.

He sighed.

“Run five laps then you’re dismissed,” he said, too tired and angry to think of something better.

“Yes, sir.”

They scampered away to follow his order and Johnny returned to the armoury with Jaehyun right behind him. He sank himself onto a bench, his legs too shaky to support him any more.

“Was banishing them not a bit dramatic?” Donghyuck asked, clearly returned to his usual self.

“They’re not banished; they can come back once they respect me.”

“None of them respect you yet, Johnny. You need to earn that,” Jaehyun said. “If you get rid of everyone who opposes you, then you won’t have anyone left. And you just look like a coward who can’t handle a few childish comments.”

“What would you have done, then?” Irritation laced itself into his words. “Let them talk to me like that?”

“I’m not saying what you did was wrong. It was a tough situation and you thought on your feet to find a quick solution. But it won’t work in the long-run and you need to plan for that.”

Jaehyun, as he so often was, was right. Johnny sighed again.

“I’ll think of a plan. I didn’t control my anger well enough, but I’ll think of something.”

Jaehyun smiled at him.

“Oh yeah,” Donghyuck said, snapping his fingers, “I just remembered ‒ Jaemin told me to remind you that we need to start sorting out security arrangements for the courting ball.”

Right. The courting ball. Johnny hadn’t forgotten about it so much as he had been trying his hardest to not think about it.

“We’ll get to that,” he gritted out. He stood up, taking his sword from where it was hanging and walking towards the exit. “I haven’t had a chance to train in days.” He said in way of an explanation.

“Want to spar?” Jaehyun was quick to offer but Johnny shook his head.

“Go bother Doyoung or something,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. Jaehyun smiled kind of tersely, kind of abashedly.

The training area was large, stretched over a large section of the palace grounds and continued beyond the walls into the surrounding land. Johnny passed the guards at the gate, to where the old training dummies stood outside the castle’s walls.

A stationary target did nothing much in the way of helping him to improve, but it provided him with a way to expel his anger, so it sufficed.

His emotions were difficult to understand, but anger was so clear and so prominent within him. And each blow he dealt to the wooden dummy was demonstrative of that. Anger at the classist soldiers he was supposed to lead. Anger at Hyunwoo for putting him in this position. Anger at Taeyong for ignoring him. Anger at himself for being born to peasants. Anger at the system that kept them apart.

As much as it seemed ridiculous, Johnny clung to the belief that he _did_ know Taeyong. Clung to the belief that it was not Taeyong’s choice to pretend he didn’t exist whilst in public. But belief did not make it hurt any less.

He was battering the poor dummy now. He couldn’t help it though, and there was nothing to stop him.

“What did that unfortunate dummy ever do to you?” Called out a joking voice.

Johnny startled and whipped around too quickly. Kunhang was standing a little distance away, his arms crossed over his chest and a wholly amused expression on his face.

“Gave me a funny look,” Johnny said in between heavy breaths.

Kunhang grinned, showing off too much teeth and stepped towards him.

“Well,” he said, something sly to his voice, “I may put up a better fight than that thing.”

“Or you may not. Guess we’ll have to see.”

Kunhang laughed genuinely and Johnny found himself joining in despite himself. It was easy to laugh with Kunhang, Johnny was discovering. There was just something about him.

“Rules?”

“None.”

Kunhang quirked an eyebrow at him but Johnny just shrugged.

“Never really any rules when it comes down to it in the end.” In a war, those with honour were the first to die.

Kunhang hummed his agreement and drew his sword. It was a thinner blade than Johnny’s, and slightly curved, and Johnny knew from the stories soldiers told around crowded campfires that it was flexible. That it could bend and flow just like the water Kunhang could create. Johnny could see images of waves and what he knew to be the Ziyou character for _water_ engraved into the blade along with another set of three characters he did not know.

Kunhang, following his gaze, read them aloud. “Xiao Dejun.”

“But it’s your blade,” Johnny said, surprised.

“One blade of a pair. One half of a whole.” He paused, turning the sword over in his hands. “Would you hate it if I told you a little about magic?”

Johnny shook his head. Any information he could use against Kunhang if they became enemies again was welcome. Not to mention, Johnny was also terribly, terribly curious. Even if he did hate magic in all its forms.

“Dejun and I share an empathy bond. Our souls are joined together so that we can feel what the other feels; we become much stronger when together. And our swords are but a mark of that. Fighting together, with swords strengthened by a magical bond is more powerful and offers greater protection than being alone ever could.”

And it made sense. It fit the stories Johnny had heard of how Dejun and Kunhang had torn through battlefields. It fit the tales of water and fire spiralling against each other but never extinguishing. It fit the horrors some soldiers still dreamt about, still called the most beautiful thing they had ever been terrorised by.

“That’s incredible,” Johnny said, entirely earnest. Kunhang looked at his sword with a fond sort of pride and Johnny had to fight against the envy that built in his chest.

“Though, I must warn you,” Kunhang said, gaze back on Johnny and a hint of mischievousness behind his eyes, “I am just as formidable without my fiancé or my magic.”

Johnny felt the corners of his lips edge upwards when he replied, “I don’t doubt it. Just as I am sure you will not doubt me, Captain Wong.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Seo.”

And with that they both fell silent, but their eyes did not leave the other’s. They circled each other ‒ perhaps a metre or so apart, not far. Johnny shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and waited.

Waited.

Kunhang lunged. Sword first, feet quick and agile. Johnny pulled his blade up vertically and deflected the blow, barrelling into Kunhang with his shoulder and pushing him back. Kunhang used the momentum to turn quickly and deliver a kick to Johnny’s abdomen, knocking Johnny’s breath out of his lungs as he stumbled backwards slightly.

Johnny cocked his head to the side and felt his neck click.

He drew his sword back up and made the first move this time. He surged forwards, swinging his sword up to his right, purposefully too wide. Kunhang saw the opportunity he gave and went for his exposed left side but Johnny easily dodged and Kunhang continued forwards, past Johnny. His foot dug into the grass as he swivelled and brought his sword handle down on Kunhang’s back.

Kunhang fell onto his front, but was up just as quickly as he dropped. As he rose, he pushed his hands into the earth and spun, sticking his leg out so that it caught Johnny’s ankle. Johnny’s feet were taken out from underneath them and he plummeted ungracefully to the ground, landing with a _thud_.

Kunhang made to drive his sword down, so Johnny brought his up and they met in the air. Kunhang had gravity on his side, but Johnny’s blade was heavier, better designed for this type of fight. He feigned losing strength, pulling his blade a little in on himself and knew Kunhang had fallen for it when he smirked, had been lulled into thinking he was winning.

Johnny put all of his strength behind his sword and pushed up, Kunhang’s face morphing into quickly disguised shock as he stumbled backwards.

Johnny got to his feet and they were back to circling each other. Both of them breathed heavily. Johnny loosened his grip on his sword slightly.

They both moved at the same time. And then it was a blur. Feigning and attacking, blocking and dodging. The only thing Johnny could discern was the repeated sound of metal against metal as their strikes met each other in the air over and over. He moved entirely on cultivated instinct: darting back and forth, feet moving over each other in some staccato, irregular dance.

It seemed their minds decided on their next moves in tandem. Kunhang thrust his blade forward but Johnny pushed his body side-on and clasped around Kunhang’s hand where he gripped the blade in the same instant as Kunhang drove his elbow into where Johnny’s own hand met his sword. Johnny twisted and pushed, sending Kunhang’s sword flying through the air just as his did the same.

They stopped moving, Kunhang’s wrist still enclosed in Johnny’s fist and Johnny’s right arm dangling off to the side, still shaking from the force Kunhang had used.

Their eyes met and then they heard their swords hit the ground.

A beat passed.

They both broke into wide grins, sharing an expression of excitement. Adrenaline outweighed the blood in Johnny’s veins and he could still hear his heartbeat high in his ears. They burst into laughter, raucous and loud and Johnny let go of his grip on Kunhang in favour of wrapping his arms around his stomach as he laughed.

“That was the most exciting one-on-one I’ve had with someone in years ‒ Dejun included.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Johnny said between pants and laughs.

Kunhang extended his hand and Johnny took it. They shook hands.

“Good fight, for someone without magic.”

“Likewise.”

Some time passed as they both regained their breath. Johnny walked over to where Kunhang’s sword had landed and picked it up, turning it over in his hands.

“Your movements are much more…” he searched for the word, “artful than mine. More fluid. Is that due to the blade?”

“And technique,” Kunhang nodded. “In Ziyou, we’re taught to model our fighting style on whatever our magic manifests as.” He picked up Johnny’s sword, using both hands. “Gods, your sword is heavy. No wonder you have such force behind each of your swings. I had to dodge much more than I had to parry.”

“I noticed.” Johnny smirked. “That’s why I was so relentless. Wanted to see how many spins it took before you got dizzy.”

“I’ll tell you now that I am trained in traditional dance, so the answer’s high.”

Johnny laughed again, unsure if he’d even stopped in the first place. He handed Kunhang’s sword back to him and received his own, sheathing it swiftly.

“Okay, as fun as that was, it was also very tiring,” Kunhang said.

“Food?”

“And wine ‒ if you’re offering. I really do love your wine here.”

“Is it not too early for wine?”

“Never too early.”

“I’ll take you to the kitchens, then. Jisung can get some for us.”

“Gods bless Jisung.”

  


Night had fallen a few hours ago and Taeyong still hadn’t slept. His room was lit only by a single candle that sat on his desk and cast its light over the documents he was meant to be sorting through. He was meant to be, but he just could not.

The words swam about his head and it was difficult to organise them into something coherent. He had to finish them soon, because he still had somewhere else to be before he could sleep, but he had barely even started. His mind kept drifting, as it did more and more often these days. Drifting away from his duties and into something dangerous.

He frowned at a note written in Jungwoo’s handwriting. It said something about one of the Ziyou’s demands and how it would be impossible to meet but Taeyong’s brain was too dragged down by fatigue to ponder over logistics and negotiations. He sighed, rubbing two fingers into his temple but it did little to relieve him of the ache living there.

His mind drifted again, too easily. It detached itself from his body and floated around above his head.

He wondered how the public, how his teachers, how his mother would react if they saw him now. Slouched in a chair, top three buttons on his shirt undone, hair messy, and boots kicked off to the side.

He wondered what Johnny would think. And then he stopped himself. Or, at least, he tried.

Johnny wouldn’t care, he decided. But everyone else would. But, then again, that was the whole problem wasn’t it? That he had been groomed to care about appearances and what everyone else thought over everything else, so much so that he had alienated one of the only people who wouldn’t care about fronts.

It became more and more difficult to distinguish between Prince Taeyong Lee and actual Taeyong as the years passed. Prince Taeyong was a hollow image; he was an enigma. And, perhaps, normal Taeyong was, too. In a different way, though. Because actual Taeyong was dense and full of hidden desires and guilt and fear but Prince Taeyong was empty, available only at surface level.

If there was one distinction, though, it would be this.

Taeyong lifted himself up in his chair, pushed himself forward so he was closer to the edge of his desk. His fingertips hovered just above the flickering flame of the candle.

And then he thought of dancing and the freedom it brought, and he thought of Johnny bathed in moonlight, and that feeling built within him.

He felt the energy from the fire and he borrowed it, pulling it from the flame until it burnt out into wispy smoke and he was left with a small circle of pure white light.

A tiny, private smile graced his lips.

He moved the small ball through the air. It hovered in places, painted tiny patterns of energy in the cold night. He still couldn’t understand it ‒ not even Doyoung could. And while that was a source of great frustration for Doyoung, Taeyong found that he didn’t really care.

There was something so very fascinating about the unknown.

He watched it for a few minutes, losing himself in the way it floated when there was an abrupt knock on his door. Panic seized him and the ball flew back to rest upon the candle wick, transforming back into fire.

“Come in.”

Taeyong pulled himself up straight and flattened his hair just as the door opened.

He sighed out of relief at the sight of Renjun standing in the doorway. Taeyong stood up and crossed over to him, pulling him into a hug as the door swung shut behind him.

“Are you okay? Chenle told me what happened. We don’t have to go if you don’t want.”

“I’m fine,” Renjun answered, but he avoided eye contact. “We can go, they’re already expecting us.” At Taeyong’s look he added, “I promise.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

  


Leaving the castle was easy, even if Doyoung’s warnings rang out in his head as they crossed through the passageway.

What was more difficult, was navigating to their destination. It was far away, atop another hill in another part of the capital. They moved under the shadows Renjun had clutched around them through open plains and forests until they finally reached the River of the Valleys and untied the rope attaching a small wooden boat to a tree on the riverbed.

They travelled down the river undisguised. Shadows did not form on water. Moonlight hit them squarely and Taeyong couldn’t help the anxiety that thrummed through him, even if he knew that it was irrational, that this place was deserted during the day, let alone at night.

The river fed directly into the bottom of the hill, ran straight through it like it was a tunnel and they followed the river into the darkness. It was a tiny, unnoticeable route. Designed for quick escape in the days when the building had been a secondary castle and not what it was now.

They dismounted the boat and found Taekwoon ‒ a tall and broad but thin man ‒ already waiting for them. He helped them out, setting his lantern on the dingy stone platform he stood on.

Taeyong could feel Renjun grow even more tense beside him and turned to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to come in. You can stay here.”

Renjun looked like he wanted to argue but then seemed to think better of it and nodded stiffly. Taeyong lifted his hand and took the energy from the nearest living thing: the river. It grew still for a second, as Taeyong extracted its energy and made it into light. But then the river was flowing again as the water moved along and it was like it had never stopped.

All three of them watched the way the singular divided until there was a whole array of them, spreading out and illuminating eerie space.

“Thank you,” Renjun said quietly.

Taeyong shook his head slightly before turning back to Taekwoon, gesturing for him to continue. Taekwoon led him through a rusty, black metal gate and through a passageway with moss growing between the cracks of the stone and the pungent smell of dampness.

“How is he?” Taeyong asked and, even though his voice was quiet, it bounced around them in the passage.

“He’ll be better once he sees you,” Taekwoon said.

That wasn’t an answer.

They walked the rest of the way, out of the passageway and up so many flights of stairs Taeyong lost count and his thighs burned, in silence. Taekwoon had always had a sadness about his face. But he looked so worn and tired. Dark shadows dug into the flesh under his eyes and his hair was matted against his forehead. He almost didn’t want to complete his journey, didn’t want to see what waited for him atop these stairs.

It was quiet at night, bar the odd whimper or sob that drifted through the walls. And when they finally reached their destination, far removed from the rest of the people in the building, Taekwoon dug around in his pocket for the key. He pushed the heavy metal door and it gave way, swinging open with a painful whine.

Taeyong was very familiar with this room, but he still could not help the disgust that ran through his blood whenever he set foot in it.

There was only one window in the tiny room, and it was so small a toddler would not have fit through it. Moonlight tried to get in, but ultimately just cast a pathetic beam onto the stone floor.

Bars stood the length of the room, cutting it in half. They were coated in iron and Taeyong could feel the magic in his bones recoil at the stench of it in the air but he paid it no mind, crossing the room to sink to the floor in front of the bars of the cell.

He saw, now, why Taekwoon had avoided his question. There wasn’t a way to describe this. Nothing that would capture its severity.

His figure was slumped over, curled in on itself like a wounded animal. But his hands were exposed, as though he were trying to distance himself from them and Taeyong understood why. Because, tight around his wrists, were thick cuffs of pure iron. And Taeyong knew that iron seized hold of magic and dragged it from where it was buried in your bones. And it didn’t let up. Ever.

His hair was greasy, more dirt than hair. And Taeyong couldn’t see his face and he almost didn’t want to. His once tan skin had grown paler. Taeyong hated it; he hated it so much. And it took all he had learnt from years and years of lessons to push back the tears that burned in his eyes.

Distantly, he registered Taekwoon sitting in his chair behind him.

“Hello, Hakyeon,” Taeyong said quietly.

Hakyeon lifted his head, and his neck cracked loudly with the small movement. His face was worn, and his flesh looked more like a thin sheet of skin hanging off of a skull that anything else. Sweat clung to his forehead in droplets, even though it was so cold this high up. His eyes were unfocused, searching for whoever had called his name and something hot clutched tight around Taeyong’s gut. Something thick grew in his throat and clogged his airway.

When at last Hakyeon seemed to find Taeyong, his face broke into a horribly faraway smile, too giddy and out of place in the dismal cell.

“Yong?” he said, voice hoarse from disuse. There was something so _young_ about his voice and Taeyong couldn’t explain how vile and nightmarish it was to see the man he had idolised for years as broken and vacant as he was now.

Taeyong sobbed even as he smiled at Hakyeon.

“Yeah, yeah it’s me, Hak. I came to visit you.”

“That’s awfully kind of you.”

“Not really. The others would love to see you, too, but it’s too dangerous for them.”

Silence. Hakyeon had used to be so so talkative, bordering on annoying at times. How Taeyong wished they could go back. Hakyeon and silence simply did not fit together. It was wrong. Everything about this was so, so wrong.

“We’re getting close, Hak.” Taeyong leant on the bars, ignoring the pain it brought. He needed to be as close to Hakyeon as possible. “We’re in the middle of the peace talks right now, We’ll find the people who actually killed my father and then they’ll have to let you go.”

“That would be nice,” Hakyeon said. And even in his disillusioned state, it sounded flat and empty.

“No,” Taeyong said, with as much conviction as he could. “We will find them. We have to.”

Silence again.

“Have you made any dolls recently?” Taeyong asked, trying to keep his enthusiasm up even as tears began to fall.

“No,” Taekwoon answered from behind him. “He gave up a month or so ago. Said something about his fingers not working well enough any more.”

Taekwoon’s eyes settled on Hakyeon, roaming over his face as though he’d never seen him before even though he saw him every single day for hours on end. And someone else might have mistaken the look in his eyes as pity, but Taeyong knew that pity was far too impersonal of an emotion for what Taekwoon felt about Hakyeon.

“I made some for him, though. They’re nothing compared to what he used to make,” he said, “but I tried. For him.”

Taekwoon dug around in his pockets again and fished out three misshapen, carved wooden dolls.

“They don’t really look human,” he laughed without humour.

“They’re perfect,” Taeyong said. And it was the truth.

He held them up to the bars so Hakyeon could see them.

The dolls were something Hakyeon had been making since before he’d been arrested. He would carve them out of tree bark and fashion them into dancers with an enchantment. They would move as realistically as any real dancer and would serve as a way for him to teach new members of Aeternum routines. They learned a short set of movements and would dance to it over and over when told to. Each member had an abundance of them, and treated them like personal treasures.

When he’d first been put in this cell, he had continued to make them. Because, even without magic, they reminded him of home and made him feel a little less alone.

And then Taeyong would come and enchant them with the routine that Hakyeon described and give them to Aeternum.

It was harrowing to hear that he’d stopped making them. That he’d given in.

Hakyeon’s eye were unseeing when he looked at the dolls, as though he didn’t recognise them. Though, Taeyong hoped, that might have just been due to Taekwoon’s poor craftsmanship.

“Could you hum a song for me, Hak? And I’ll make the dolls dance.”

That, he could tell, Hakyeon did understand. Thankfully, he listened.

He began to hum a tune. Well, not quite. It was a broken string of notes. They seemed to scrape against his throat before they made their way into the air. And Taeyong wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

Taekwoon helped him. He filled in the gaps with a melody of his own, and it fit perfectly somehow. It was like Taekwoon knew, inexplicably, what Hakyeon wanted to do but physically could not.

The song was haunting. Fragmented even as Taekwoon completed it. And Taeyong made energy within him as he cast the spell.

“ _Chorus_ ” Taeyong whispered, and the energy surged out from within him and collected the music from the air, carrying it into the dolls. In his head, Taeyong envisioned a dance. Tiny movements in time to the music Hakyeon and Taekwoon had created. And when he opened his eyes, he saw those same movements replicated on the doll: an echo of the image from his mind.

A fond smile broke out across all three of their faces, and Taeyong was glad for it. They brought a little more light into the dingy cell.

When the song trailed off into the cold air, as did the doll’s movements. Taekwoon and Taeyong clapped lightly, but Hakyeon just continued to stare at it.

A beat passed. And then another.

“I think you should be getting back,” Taekwoon said quietly, his eyes still on Hakyeon.

Taeyong nodded, gathering the dolls up and holding them close to his chest. He wanted to tell Taekwoon to look after Hakyeon, but another look at Taekwoon’s face as he stared at Hakyeon told him there was no need for it.

He rose to his feet, speaking to Hakyeon one more time before turning around.

“We’re going to find them, Hak; I promise. We’re getting you out of here.”

Hakyeon didn’t respond, didn't even look up.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, this is me trying to write an irl johnny/hendery interaction into existence
> 
> anyway, thank you for reading!  
> if you enjoyed please leave kudos and comments they really make my day xx
> 
>  
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/whatisanult)  
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/whatisanult)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay first off im really really sorry this chapter is so late it's just that life has been a lot lately and writing has been hard
> 
> anyway i hope this chapter makes up for it <3
> 
> thank you to caitlin for proofing ilysm xx
> 
> please enjoy~
> 
> cue: princesses on parade from swan princess

It felt like a time for forgotten souls.

It always did, when he returned from visiting Hakyeon. When he returned from seeing how his mentor had deteriorated even further in a prison cell of his own mother’s creation. There was always a hope ‒ a selfish, naïve hope ‒ that he might have gotten even the slightest degree better. A hope that was always, inevitably, crushed under iron weights.

Visiting Hakyeon left him feeling helpless, even as he occupied one of the most powerful positions in the kingdom. For clearing Hakyeon’s name would take more than well-placed whispers. It would take a miracle.

And Meridianam was not a pious land.

They reached the castle just as light crept over the horizon and Renjun’s shadows flickered every time a beam of light hit them directly. And, as they crossed into the threshold of his home, Taeyong already yearned to leave. But he pushed down the urge, forced rationality to take control.

He bid Renjun goodnight with a tight hug, wished that he would rest well even though he doubted it and returned to his chambers.

His legs gave way beneath him the moment his door closed and he sank to the floor, the rich fabrics of his clothes wrinkling and pressing against the wooden flooring. His back pushed against the door and his ankles dug into the floor.

His breaths were irregular and heavy as they passed through his body, carrying too much air to his head and not enough to his lungs. He let them, let them exhaust his body and mind beyond how much they were already, let the image of Hakyeon ‒ broken and unhinged and dying ‒ settle behind his eyelids as he screwed them shut.

Even with all the power he had accumulated, he was still a child who cowered on his bedroom floor, he thought bitterly. And his people would be sorely disappointed if they saw their prince in this way. Even more so would his teachers be, even more so his mother.

But the world could not see him. And he clung to that one excuse as he struggled to reign in his breathing. The world existed beyond the walls of his room but it did not exist here. Here in this pocket of seclusion where he didn’t have to pretend to be anything more than he was. And what he was, was a frightened child out of his depth.

His breaths evened out and the panic in his blood gave way to fatigue. And he used the last of his self-discipline to pull himself up as though he were a puppet on strings and lead him to his bed. He fell onto it with a lack of grace unbecoming of a prince but such things became irrelevant as his consciousness slipped away into the early morning light.

  
  


 

He awoke what couldn’t have been more than two hours later, but that feeling had crept beneath his skin and dragged him from his sleep. His eyes kept slipping closed as he prised himself out of bed, ushered by the need to leave the castle.

The light filtered in through his windows and the furniture cast long shadows against the floor. He dressed himself in light lilacs and left his room in disarray behind him.

Weak beams of light bathed the corridors in a hazy glow, tinging Taeyong’s sight white. Tiredness still lingered in his mind, but he pushed it out to the peripheral as he made his way through the castle. There was no need to rouse Renjun this time, not when he needed the sleep and there was no need to be secretive about this visit.

The guards at the castle entranceway bowed respectfully to him as he approached, taking in his clothes with understanding. Lilac: the colour of mourning. 

They opened the doors for him and he thanked them with a nod, exiting into the flower garden. His father’s flower garden.

He walked through the beds of flowers with purpose until he reached the array of lilies growing clustered together. He plucked a white one from its place in the earth and turned to leave, that feeling begging him to make haste.

“Taeyon‒ Your Highness!”

Taeyong turned, quickly pulling his features into something amicable. He found that a smile came rather naturally to him when he saw Dejun running through the gardens, waving his hand in the air and with a grin on his face. It was a rather unseemly scene, and Taeyong could almost see his teachers’ scowls.

He raised the hand not holding the flower in a dainty wave and waited for Dejun to reach him.

“My Lord,” Taeyong said, his own amusement bright in his voice, “another morning run?”

Dejun nodded, taking a moment to catch his breath before he replied, “you were right. The gardens are beautiful with the sunrise behind them.”

Taeyong smiled, the praise of his father’s legacy warming his heart.

“Meridianam prides ourselves on our nature,” he said. And then he realised what an opportunity he had, so he took it. “Would you like to see more? Outside of the castle? I was on my way out just now.”

Dejun’s grin grew impossibly wider and there was nothing but sincerity in his voice when he said, “I would love to.”

“Then please,” Taeyong gestured to his side and turned around, continuing on his path, “follow me.”

They made their way out of the palace gates in a comfortable silence, Taeyong’s grip loose around the stem of his flower. There was no need for horses and they weaved through the forest that surrounded the castle. Beams of sunlight pushed through the gaps in the leaves and branches, soft yellow light and Dejun stopped every so often to admire it, calling Taeyong’s name and pointing out different patches of light with such genuine wonder that Taeyong found himself entranced despite having seen the same thing a million times.

It would be easy to fall in love with Dejun, Taeyong thought. And he felt a sudden and brief flash of jealousy. But not jealousy of Kunhang, but rather of what the pair of them shared. It would be so easy to love Dejun, if only it were so easy to love at all.

They reached the bottom of the castle’s hill, emerging from the forest and into a valley with a thin river flowing through it. The ground was rocky, jagged and they walked a decent distance away from the riverbed as they followed it up the adjoining hill.

“So,” Dejun began, eyes trained on the river, voice careful, “this courting ball.”

_ Ah _ , Taeyong thought.

“Do you not have such things in Ziyou?” Taeyong asked, knowing the answer full well already.

Dejun shook his head and kicked a pebble. The two of them watched as it bounced along the ground. “We have courting rituals for the royals, of course, but none quite as…” Dejun clearly didn’t know how to phrase it.

“Ostentatious?” Taeyong supplied and then laughed at the panic that grew on Dejun’s face. “It is fine, Dejun, I do not take insult for a tradition older than the trees. I agree that it is a little over the top.”

Dejun seemed to relax.

“But it is tradition, nonetheless,” Taeyong continued as they began to climb the incline of the hill, “and one I intend to honour. It is the nature of Meridianam that we be fanciful. That we be extravagant in our celebrations. And I want nothing less than to betray the beliefs of our founders.” Taeyong didn’t go into his finer feelings on the matter, didn’t go into the hypocrisy of it.

“Besides, my mother always does organise such wonderful balls. I am sure you shall have fun, My Lord.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Dejun cocked a grin. “I expect your evening shall be a little more tedious, what with suitor after suitor desperately pursuing you.”

His bluntness startled a laugh out of Taeyong. “I am excited to meet everyone who deigns to pursue me,” he replied diplomatically.

They stared at each other for a moment before they both broke off into raucous laughter and wide grins.

“Well said, Your Highness. Very well said.”

“I do try.”

They must have been about halfway up by now, the journey made slower each time Dejun paused to gaze at the kingdom beneath them. The river grew thinner with every step they took. Willows began to appear more frequently.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Your Highness, where are we going? This seems an awful long way to go just for a walk.”

Taeyong’s eyes found the river, the way the shallow water ran over the rocks. “We’re going to visit my father.”

Dejun stopped walking. “Tae- Taeyong, you should have told me. I wouldn’t have imposed had I known.”

Taeyong shook his head. “I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you to join me. Besides,” his eyes fell to where the flower was still clasped in his hand, “my father enjoyed company. He felt at home in a crowd.”

Dejun still looked hesitant, so Taeyong added, “I think my father would think it poor manners if he did not greet a single one of our guests. And we’re nearly there, anyhow.”

Dejun seemed to give in, and he resumed walking, falling into step with Taeyong.

“What was your father like?” he asked, an innocent curiosity to his voice that Taeyong envied.

“Full of life,” Taeyong said, and he could hear the wistfulness in his own words, felt affection stretch his lips into a smile. “He cared for the people, each and every one of them. He spent more time in the villages than he did in the castle, dancing and singing and just talking. He never liked audiences, you see. He thought they were too formal, too stuffy, so he would go down to talk with people about their problems in their own homes.”

And once he’d started, Taeyong found it difficult to stop. A chance to talk about his father was rare, when his name was almost taboo in the castle.

“And he was fiercely passionate about upholding his beliefs. He argued against the eradication of our open doors policy for years against politicians who would see it gone. He always said that we should remain true to the values of compassion upon which our country was founded.” 

And perhaps it was the biggest irony of Meridianam that the policy had been abandoned after his father's death, by his mother, in an attempt to avenge his spirit.

“Meridianam: the land of lost things,” Dejun said, a small smile on his face.

Taeyong laughed lightly. “An old adage," he said, “but as true as ever. At least, I hope so. That that will be the case after our talks have finished.”

“It will be.”

Taeyong offered a smile of thanks.

“What about your father?”

A grin split Dejun’s face. “He’s the royal blacksmith back home,” he said. “Raised me in the palace so I received the same education as the princes and grew to love them as my own brothers.” He drew his twin swords from where they hung from sheaths at his hips. They were shorter blades than most, and, while the hilt was thin, they fanned out down their lengths. Dejun held them as extensions of himself, letting the silver catch in the light and Taeyong took time to admire what he recognised as the Ziyou word for  _ fire _ inscribed into the metal.

“He made these ‒ Kunhang’s too ‒ as engagement gifts. And as tokens of luck before the war. I think they must have worked, considering that I am now standing here with the prince of the country who was, not long ago, my enemy.”

“I think so, too.”

Dejun told him more stories. About his father but also about the princes. About how Yukhei once burnt down almost the entire East Wing because Yangyang had snuck up on him. About how Kun had flooded the ballroom during his birthday celebration and that was how they’d found out about his magic. About the first time Yangyang had tried to cook and nearly poisoned them all.

And, through the laughter, Taeyong felt a strange sensation build in his chest as the people he’d studied as political figures became real individuals. More and more with every word Dejun spoke. It was unsettling, to discover that they were actual human beings, when so much of war relied on alienating the enemy.

And soon they had reached the top of the hill, grassy and high above the kingdom. The river was nothing more than a thin stream and disappeared into the earth at its source, besides which stood a majestic, draping willow tree. Underneath the protective, drooping branches of the tree, were regular rows of orchids, and parchment tags on a string tied around the branch above each one. One tag amongst each cluster dangled lower than the rest, and bore a name and a set of dates.

Dejun looked at the tags inquisitively but did not venture near them, so Taeyong told him, “we each write a message to our departed loved one at the funeral, and hang it on a branch above them, so that the words hang as the leaves do. The tree itself is to protect the soul of the person from the harsh light of the sun as they rest, to allow them to sleep peacefully for an eternity under the loving words of those they knew.”

Dejun’s eyes grew wide with sorrowful understanding, and his gaze turned up to admire the tree, eyes tracing down each long chain of leaves with delicate fascination.

“It is also a tradition that the dead are burned. And half of their ashes are used to plant an orchid, so that their death will give way to new life: life that will keep their memory. The other half are thrown into a river, which is why their orchid must always be besides running water. So that, if they wish it, their soul can be carried away by the currents, that they can escape to the sea and rest freely. And, if not, the water will carry away the sadness people feel when they visit, so that this becomes a place to celebrate life rather than mourn passing.”

“That’s beautiful,” Dejun said, voice soft.

Taeyong nodded. He thought so, too. It was beautiful, if a little fanciful. He thought it fitting for Meridianam.

He lifted the leaves out of his face, and walked into the space beneath the tree’s shelter. He offered for Dejun to follow him but Dejun politely shook his head, letting Taeyong have time alone with his father.

Taeyong knelt on the ground in front of his father’s orchid, and lay his lily amongst the abundance already there. He could see a selection that he knew were from his father’s garden. Namely, asphodel and rainflowers. He wondered who had lain them.

He took a second to arrange the flowers, and then took the tag above the orchid between his fingers, eyes going over the words he had read a thousand times.

_ King Iseun Lee. _

_ A loving man; a righteous king _ .

No matter how many times he read it, he still could not fight the anger that filled him. Because there was nothing that could be written on a scrap of paper that could do his father justice. Nothing that could capture the wonderful man he had been. Taeyong bit back the cries that threatened to escape, blinked away the tears that welled up. This was not the time to lose himself in grief. He was better than that.

He let go of the tag, and it swung back into place over the purple flower.

“I miss you, Dad,” he said, softly but loud enough that he knew Dejun could hear. “I’m looking after Mother, and I think she’s getting better. She’ll be better when we find who did this to you and we’re close. I promise. We are so, so close. Then you can rest.” His words became ragged in his throat but he made no move to stop them as they tumbled from his mouth. “The fighting is over now, though. And I know you never liked violence but it’s time for peace now and I hope that makes you happy.” He took a shuddering breath. “I love you. And I miss you.” 

A few moments passed, and the leaves blew gently in the wind; the sound of the river flowing filled the empty space.

Taeyong basked in the presence of his father’s spirit for a minute or so before he collected himself. He wiped the beads of water from beneath his eyeline and pulled himself up so that his back was straight as he knelt on the grass.

“Dejun?” he called and a moment later, Dejun’s head poked through the veil of leaves. He beckoned him over with his hand, and turned to face his father’s flower as Dejun knelt next to him, looking confused.

“Father, this is Lord Dejun Xiao of Ziyou. He thinks your flower garden is really pretty.”

Understanding washed over Dejun’s face and when he turned to look at the orchid, it was with a genuine smile on his face.

“It’s nice to meet you, Your Majesty.”

 

 

It was back in the valley between the two hills, in the mid-morning where the sun was bright in the sky that Dejun stopped walking. He caught Taeyong’s gaze, a depth to his eyes that kept Taeyong quiet even as he wanted to ask for answers.

“I do not know who killed your father, Taeyong.”

And there it was. The horrible, unspoken accusation that had stalked behind them during their entire visit, put out into the open under the harsh light of the morning sun for all to see.

The only sound then was the river running dutifully beside them and nothing else.

And Taeyong, who had long learnt how to read people, how to distinguish between truth and lies, and peel away at people’s façades until they were bones with no hidden secrets, wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel upon the realisation that Dejun was telling the truth.

“I know,” he said.

  
  


 

“Arms up, please, Your Highness,” the seamstress said, and Taeyong obeyed, lifting his arms so that she could adjust the sleeve of his outfit accordingly.

He eyed himself in the mirror, at the grey shadows under either eye and the hair pulled away from his face with pins. He looked over the flowing white chiffon shirt, intricate lace ties at the bottom of his throat. And he looked at the loose sleeves that drew to wrap tightly around his wrists.

The seamstress worked at the sleeves, adjusting them so that they hung off of his shoulders to allow him to move his arms freely. The shirt was complicated, adorned with patterns of twisting vines and flowers only visible when the light hit it just right.

He kept his arms raised as she lifted the jacket over the shirt, though he averted his eyes to the reflections of the people that sat behind where he was stood on a pedestal.

“Preparations are complete,” Doyoung said, reading off a scrap of parchment. “The ballroom is fully decorated and it looks beautiful. Rehearsals this evening should go ahead as planned. Rooms are ready to receive guests and Jisung has assured me that we have enough food to kill the entire kingdom from overeating.”

From the floor next to Doyoung’s chair, Jisung nodded happily. “It’s true!” he chirped. “There’s so much and mother won’t let me eat any of it. We’ve had to start storing some of the pans in my bedroom to make space for all the food we have.”

Taeyong smiled at him, fondness overtaking him. He looked to Jungwoo.

“All guests have responded affirmatively.” Good. That meant there wouldn’t be a single lesson going to waste. “Some have already begun to send gifts in advance. You’ve been given some lovely rubies from the prince of Dysi if you care to wear them.”

Taeyong sighed. “You’re welcome to have them, Jungwoo.”

Jungwoo smiled, something victorious about it. “Thanks, Yongie.”

The seamstress moved to the other sleeve of the jacket.

“I’ve also spoken with Johnny,” Jungwoo said cautiously, like he had predicted the ugly feeling that rose in Taeyong’s throat like bile. “And he gave me his plans for the positioning of the guards, if you would like to familiarise yourself with it.”

Taeyong nodded, letting his eyes fall once again to his own outfit in the mirror. “Yes, I’ll have a look at that when I have time.”

“Speaking of Johnny,” Jaemin said from where he was attached to Renjun’s side. “There was some trouble at his first training session yesterday.”

Taeyong’s blood ran cold. “What?”

Taeyong felt his stomach drop further with every word as Jaemin recounted the tale of what had happened yesterday. Johnny’s words when they had fought on the hill rang bitterly in his ears and shame swam in his chest at how Johnny had been right. That they didn’t respect him for a reason as stupid as who his father had been.

He desperately wanted to do something to help, anything to spare Johnny the ridicule of highborn brats. Two ideas came to him. One that his teachers would be proud of and one they would hate, that was, admittedly, a little stupid.

And, he thought, there wasn’t anything stopping him from doing both. Not when it would make Johnny happy. Not when it might repair their fraying friendship.

“Names?”

“Chan Bang and Woojin Kim.”

Taeyong weighed the names up in his head. He knew their parents.

“Take care of it,” he said shortly and Jaemin nodded. Taeyong met Doyoung’s eyes in the mirror and saw the disapproval there. He raised his eyebrows in a silent challenge but Doyoung just bit the inside of his cheek and rolled his eyes. “Where’s Jeno?”

“Exchanging war-time letters with Ziyou’s correspondents so we can piece together a cohesive narrative. Why? Did you need him?” Doyoung answered.

“Just ask him to keep Yuta as far away from Sicheng as possible during the ball. I wouldn’t want my mother’s decorating efforts to go to waste because the two of them get into a fight.”

Doyoung nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

“You may lower your arms now, Your Highness.”

Taeyong looked back to the mirror, at the jacket that now fit perfectly over his frame, that made him seem smaller in stature than he was, at the careful embellishments woven through the seams to make him appear dainty, at the pale gold cumberbund drawn around his waist to make it look even thinner. He looked objectively beautiful, yes, but he didn’t look powerful or strong.

He looked like the perfect third prince. He supposed he was ready.

  
  
  


 

He wasn’t ready. Decidedly so. Standing behind the large doors that led to the ballroom and pacing around as the sounds of violins trilled in through the closed doors, the lessons and everything else he had learnt and prepared left his mind. All he could think was that he  _ wasn’t ready _ . And he might not ever be.

He wasn’t ready to go into the hall and dance with hundreds of people watching him and judging him; he wasn’t ready for countless royals to come up to him and try to win him over with rehearsed lines about how beautiful he was; he wasn’t ready to get married.

There was very little room for protest in Taeyong’s life but that did not stop him from complaining. His jacket felt too heavy, his clothes too tight as he paced. Because he knew that he  _ was _ ready. Of course he was. He couldn’t have trained for most of his life to end up not ready. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t that he wasn’t ready for the ball. It was that he didn’t want to go.

He didn’t want to masquerade around the ballroom acting like some ignorant, well-mannered airhead in the hopes that they’d be tricked into believing he was harmless and good for nothing but looking pretty. He didn’t want to trap himself into a loveless marriage for the good of the kingdom.

Because he did not have a single strand of faith that he would fall in love with whomever his spouse ended up being. Not when he had already given his heart away. He wasn’t Joohyun.

But then the tempo of the music within the ballroom was slowing down into what Taeyong recognised as the song that would signal his entrance and he had to do what he did best: smother his feelings under the persona he was meant to possess.

He pulled himself up until his back was straight, and let his arms rest at his sides. He pulled his face into a practised smile and ignored the aching sensation in his chest. There was no time for lamenting for what could never be. Not when he had a ball to attend.

  
  


 

The ballroom was tiered. A circular hall with a high, domed ceiling that gave way to a glass skylight over the marble flooring. The centre of it was large, flat and open, shiny in the bright candlelight. Raised alcoves were built into the walls around the edges of the main hall, a short flight of four stairs leading to a platform with a raised arch covering and decorated by a statue and a window, intended for quiet discussion.

Doyoung preferred to use them for observation.

He stood in one, a glass of half-drunk champagne in his hand and eyes scanning over the crowd. He kept his expression indifferent even as he analysed each person carefully. Parties weren’t his thing, so to speak. His thing was more intellectual conversation over a slice of cake and a cup of tea rather than struggling to hear someone whilst maintaining a respectable distance.

He tried not to be bitter, he really did. He had known what he was committing himself to when he’d pledged his life to serving Taeyong but it became very difficult to push the bitterness down when he had to attend entire balls dedicated to selling his best friend off to the highest bidder.

He took a sip from his glass in an attempt to dismiss the thought.

His eyes wandered over the crowd, all dancing and conversing with a distinct sense of apprehension as they awaited Taeyong’s arrival. Doyoung’s eyes flickered to his pocket watch. Thirteen more minutes.

He found Mark easily amongst the others on the dance floor, dressed in an all-black ensemble just as all Taeyong’s siblings were tonight and his laugh almost audible even from where Doyoung stood. His hands were clasped with Donghyuck’s and they swung them around together in vague time with the music, but the bright grins on their faces were enough to silence any lectures about etiquette anyone may have given them.

Donghyuck had never been taught to dance and Mark had never paid much attention, but it seemed that they were having fun. Doyoung hated the envy he felt at that. Hated that he felt so acidic at the happiness the pair of them so rightly deserved. Donghyuck spun Mark under his arm, and Mark blushed before doing the same to Donghyuck, laughing even more when Donghyuck whispered something in his ear.

Then the two of them were scampering off the dance floor, still holding hands and looking guiltily around them, bound for the refreshment table. Doyoung stifled a snicker when he realised what they were trying to do and watched as Mark reached hesitantly for a glass of wine before it was plucked out of his hands by an amused Taeil.

Donghyuck pointed at Mark and Mark’s jaw dropped incredulously. Donghyuck laughed as Mark started speaking rapidly to Taeil who just looked tired and took a drink from the glass in his hand. Doyoung tore his eyes away when Taeil shooed them away from the table and they returned to the crowd, still bickering.

His gaze met Jungwoo’s briefly and they nodded at each other before Jungwoo turned back to talking with Yukhei.

Doyoung let his eyes roam again, until they settled on where Dejun and Kunhang were dancing, far more refined than Mark and Donghyuck had been.

 One of Dejun’s hands was settled comfortably on Kunhang’s waist while the other one held Kunhang’s up in traditional waltz position. They twirled around each other like pieces of ribbon, matching both each other and the music perfectly, as though it had been composed for them and them alone.

They never broke eye contact, either, as they danced. And the smiles on their faces were so different to the ones Doyoung saw on Taeyong’s face on a day to day basis. These were private smiles. Not intended to be seen by anyone else. Smiles for the only people in the world who existed for the two of them.

Doyoung wondered how it felt. To be loved and to love. To be so intune with another's thoughts and feelings that they practically became your own.

He wondered how it felt. To dance and laugh brightly and not care for appearances or watchful gazes. To feel happiness freely and not scrape it together from scraps. To be free to use magic. To be able to use magic at all.

His fingertips, once alive with magical electricity, felt static and dull. He curled them into fists and held them at his sides, tearing his eyes away from Dejun and Kunhang angrily.

Distantly, he registered the song morphing into a slower march that he knew Taeyong would enter to. But he ignored it when he saw Yuta, shoulder-length hair pulled into a low ponytail at the back of his head, staring in silent rage across the ballroom to where, Doyoung knew without looking, Sicheng stood.

Yuta’s fingers twitched at his side, itching to where his sword would usually have been hanging from his hip. His eyes were murderous, narrow and clouded by shadow and hatred. And even Doyoung, who had known Yuta most of his life, who knew his smile was a thing of comfort and love, was scared by this man he did not recognise.

His gaze flit to Sicheng for only a fragment of a moment, to find him looking rather unperturbed. Or perhaps, rising to the challenge. They were a dangerous combination. Oil and fire. And Doyoung could only hope they never got into close proximity again.

He searched for Jeno and signalled frantically to his  protégé with his eyes for him to intervene. Jeno understood the instruction instantly and excused himself from his conversation with a foregin minister and walked quickly to Yuta, taking him by the elbow towards the alcove which led to the gardens.

Doyoung let out a breath of relief at what he was sure was an inevitable confrontation being postponed and turned to look at Sicheng. Sicheng’s eyes were following Yuta on his way out of the ballroom with a strange look in them. For the briefest moment, so quick Doyoung was half-sure he’d imagined it, Sicheng’s eyes bore into Doyoung’s own and Doyoung felt like he was being looked through rather than at.

But then Sicheng had averted his gaze elsewhere and the doors were swinging open just as the second hand on Doyoung’s pocket watch reached twelve.

Taeyong stepped into the ballroom, footsteps light and he descended the sweeping staircase with a single hand rested gently on the banister. He smiled generally at the crowd, a docile expression warm over his face and Doyoung could have laughed at how different he looked.

He felt the crowd take a collective gasp of breath as they laid eyes on the third prince of Meridianam, and all eyes tracked his movement from the top of the stairs to the bottom, where he was greeted by his mother. The Queen made a point of admiring Taeyong’s appearance and telling him he was beautiful and Taeyong did a great job of looking away abashedly, a faint dust of pink covering the apples of his cheeks.

He bowed respectfully, and the orchestra began to play a swelling waltz from where they were tucked into the largest alcove.

Taeyong was led by his mother into the centre of the ballroom floor, the crowd parting for them easily until they lined the walls, forming a large circle around the royals.

Taeyong took his mother’s hand in his and they two of them danced with even steps, tender smiles on their faces.

He felt eyes on him. Which was strange, because everyone was meant to be entranced by Taeyong who was now dancing with Joohyun. And most people were, transfixed on their movements with awe-filled gazes. But when Doyoung turned his own eyes away from them, he found Jaehyun staring at him.

He looked very out of place, like he was the only sunflower in a field facing away from the sun. His gaze was concentrated, and it seemed to take him a moment to register that Doyoung was looking at him. When he did, his face broke into a dimpled grin that Doyoung found himself returning as Jaehyun made his way over.

Jaehyun stood beside Doyoung, and Doyoung turned back to watch Taeyong, even as he could still feel Jaehyun’s gaze on him.

“You’re meant to be watching the prince,” he murmured and saw Jaehyun bite back a smile in his peripheral.

“No thanks,” he said.

“In some countries, that would be considered treason.”

“Good thing we’re not in one of those countries, then. I don’t think I’d be able to take my eyes off of you if I tried, My Lord.”

“Are you trying?”

“No.” Jaehyun said it so simply, like it was a given fact, and Doyoung willed down the heat that threatened to rise to his ears.

Joohyun left Taeyong with a courtesy and a whisper in his ear and Taeil took her place. With that, the room started to shift back into life as Joohyun led Jinyoung to dance and the other guests followed suit. Doyoung’s eyes flit through the crowd, finding Jinyoung’s personal guard Jackson lingering in his own alcove, watching Joohyun and Jinyoung dance slowly with badly supressed longing in his eyes, hands hanging limply at his sides.

Then there was a hand, palm-up just in his line of sight. He blinked at it.

“Can I have this dance?” Jaehyun asked, something so ardent about him that Doyoung almost said yes.

“No,” he said. Jaehyun’s face fell and Doyoung fed him an excuse ‒ a true one ‒ that might make up for it. “It’s an important evening. I have a lot to do. I’m sorry.” And he did mean it.

“A lot to do,” Jaehyun said, undisguised hurt in his voice, “like standing in the corner watching people dance.”

“Yes,” Doyoung said, and he sounded unfeeling to his own ears. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Then he turned on his heel and walked down the steps out of the alcove, moving through the crowds of people to introduce himself to foreign ministers and royalty. He didn’t look back at the alcove, didn’t give himself the opportunity for distraction.

He didn’t trust himself to not go back.

  
  


 

“Didn’t even step on your feet once; are you proud of me, Yongie,” Taeil said under his breath as he span Taeyong beneath his arm and Taeyong giggled lightly, one of his first real ones of the night.

“So proud of you,” he said back, just as the room was filled with the lulling cadence that signified the end of the song. Taeil let go of his hand and bowed; Taeyong did the same.

Another hand clasped Taeyong’s, clammy but gentle and he smiled as he turned to face Mark. Mark had a large grin on his face, and it only seemed the slightest bit forced, betrayed by the nervousness to his eyes as he scanned through the people watching them.

Nevertheless, he assumed the proper position for the dance quite naturally, but not without looking at Taeyong for reassurance that he was doing it right. Reassurance Taeyong was more than happy to give him.

They didn’t dance to an orchestral piece, rather a duet between piano and violin filled the space around them as they stepped in time. They danced in silence for some time, as Mark focused on not messing up his footing and Taeyong hummed along to the music under his breath.

“Taeyong?” Mark’s voice was small, as though he were scared of being heard despite how there was no one dancing close to them.

“Yes?”

“Are you happy?”

Mark’s face was so utterly earnest, sincere and concerned that Taeyong almost stopped dancing. His eyebrows were pushed together as he stared Taeyong straight in the face, eyes searching for an answer.

Taeyong was somewhat stunned, as he scrambled for a response.  _ Yes _ , was the obvious one, but despite being taught his entire life to lie like it was nothing, his tongue refused to shape itself into the word. It was Mark, he decided. There was some intrinsic law of nature that forbade any person from lying to their younger sibling.

Mark seemed to take his silence for what it was, and his frown deepened. Taeyong felt discomfort stir in his chest. Mark was never supposed to be anything but smiling and laughing. He wasn’t supposed to be concerned for Taeyong; Taeyong was his elder brother; worrying was his job.

“I don’t like seeing you unhappy,” he said.

“I’m not,” Taeyong said, too quickly. The look Mark fixed Taeyong with told him he didn’t believe him. “I’m neither,” Taeyong corrected. “I will be happy when the country is prosperous and peaceful, but I am also happy that the war has ended. I’m in a weird grey area between worried and hopeful for the future.”

“Don’t give me that, Tae. This isn’t a speech; you don’t have to tread around it like that.” Then Mark’s voice got smaller and he seemed much more like his usual self. “You’re my brother. And you always put the kingdom first to the point of self-sacrifice and it’s admirable but you’re important, too. You deserve to be happy, Taeyong.”

The words struck a chord. Uncovered a memory Taeyong had pushed to a distant part of his mind and ripped straight through the layers he had built over the last five years. And maybe it was the undisguised care in Mark’s voice, adding to the strength of that memory that almost convinced Taeyong it was true.

But then the ballroom came crashing back into focus around him and he was forced to confront reality.

“I will be happy, Mark,” he insisted, even though it sounded hollow to his own ears. “It might take some time but I live for our country as well as its people. That is my duty and I intend to uphold it.” He said it with finality and Mark, although grudgingly, appeared to accept it.

“Fine,” he said. “But at least tell me you’re having fun at your own ball.”

Taeyong laughed. “Of course I am. I’m dancing with my darling, two left-footed younger brother to one of my favourite compositions and being endlessly pursued by suitors all night. How could I not be having fun?”

Mark cracked a grin.  _ That’s better _ , Taeyong thought.

“I’ve got to say, with the way you talk about it, I stop being so upset that I’ll never have a courting ball of my own. I used to be so jealous but it all seems a bit too much hassle. I think I’ll stick with big birthday balls from now on.”

“The first and last courting ball of our generation,” Taeyong mused. “It’s more pressure than I’d like, to be honest.”

The song changed into a different one, but Taeyong didn’t want his dance with Mark to end just yet, so they continued as an orchestral sonata began to play.

“You don’t mind being married off?”

Taeyong laughed at the crude phrasing, and used it to hide his true feelings.

“I will do what I must, Mark. And I love my country enough to spread that love to the spouse most beneficial for it.”

“You won’t even entertain the idea of marrying for love then?” His voice was something deeper than just innocent curiosity.

“It has never been an option for me.” The truth. “Besides, I must admit, I know very little about romantic love.” A lie. Both to Mark and himself.

“Oh,” Mark said, and his gaze fell to his feet.

Taeyong cursed himself for not reading into Mark’s question enough.

“It is not required for you to marry, Mark. You can do whatever you wish with your life, such is the nature of the fourth sibling,” he said and delighted when Mark’s gaze rose again. “You could remain celibate for the rest of your life, or you could marry someone for love rather than political gain.”

Taeyong pretended he didn't see how Mark's eyes flickered to where Taeyong knew a young squire stood just out of his sight. Taeyong silently thanked the stars that Donghyuck was a highborn. Though, there was a part of him that knew it would not matter. That even if Taeyong would not break tradition for himself, he would for Mark. He would do anything for his little brother's happiness. 

“It is your responsibility to be happy, Mark,” Taeyong said, affection boiling over in his chest. “If you’re happy, then so will the kingdom be.”

The final cadence of the song rang out and the pair of them stepped away from each other, and bowed.

“Go find yourself a rich royal, Yongie,” Mark said.

“Go get yourself your squire, Markie,” Taeyong shot back and turned around just fast enough to silence Mark’s indignant protests before they could start. Taeyong schooled his amusement into something more pleasant and set on his way about the ballroom. He didn’t have to amble for long before he was intercepted by his first suitor of the night.

“Your Highness,” a voice said, lilting but full of mirth. “You look beautiful.”

Taeyong turned to see a man, small in stature but still taller than Taeyong and with a presence that more than made up for it. He had an elegant sort of beauty about him, but something impish in the way he smiled and Taeyong offered his hand for him to take and press a chaste kiss to his knuckles.

“Prince Baekhyun,” he said.

Baekhyun’s smile widened as he let go of Taeyong’s hand and Taeyong collected it together with his other so they were joined in front of him.

“Would you allow me the honour of dancing with you?”

“Of course.”

  
  


 

The song meandered to a close and the pair of them walked back from the centre of the ballroom, Taeyong still laughing at a joke Baekhyun had made. Baekhyun withdrew his hand with a charming smile before he bowed.

“You’re a wonderful dancer, Your Highness,” he said, sounding like he meant it.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, and didn’t fight back against the small blush that rose to his cheeks.

Baekhyun’s smile grew, until his face was lighted with happiness.

“I’ll let you get back to your other suitors, My Prince. But I do hope you won’t forget our dance together tonight.”

“I won’t,” Taeyong promised.

Baekhyun kissed the back of his hand again, keeping his eyes on Taeyong’s as he did so.

“Have a good evening, Taeyong.” It was the first time Baekhyun had said his name, and Taeyong couldn’t help thinking that he quite liked the way he said it.

Baekhyun straightened his back and shot Taeyong another one of those smiles before walking off.

Taeyong made his way to the refreshment table slowly, stopping almost every other step to greet and accept compliments from people whose names he had spent a large portion of time memorising.

He was close to his destination, just a few more steps now. A heavy-set man with an unpleasant face stepped into his path, so close that Taeyong had to take a step back.

“The Prince of Whispers," the man said with clear distaste.

Taeyong fixed him with a sweet smile. “Lord Hyunjun,” he said. “How lovely to see you.”

“Likewise, Your Highness.” Hyunjun’s lip curled into a sneer and Taeyong felt himself be sized up, but refused to give Hyunjun the satisfaction of his discomfort.

“How is your knee?” Taeyong asked, and revelled in the ugly scowl that crossed Hunjun’s face as his eyes flickered down, as though he had forgotten he had one at all.

“Still working. Just about,” he said, slapping his right knee heartily. But in his letter excusing himself from the military, he had listed his left knee as the injured one.

The smile Taeyong gave him was wholly insincere. “I’m glad.” He met Jungwoo’s eyes over Hyunjun’s shoulder and Jungwoo nodded, turning back to Yukhei and cutting off whatever he had been saying. Taeyong focused back on Hyunjun.

“I actually wanted to talk to you, Your Highness.”

Taeyong bit back a retort about how that was obvious and he should just get on with it. Hyunjun was one of those lords they had to keep in counsel for his title and money even if everything he said was entitled and self-serving. Taeyong was just waiting for an opportunity to excuse him of his position and Hyunjun was just waiting for Taeyong to expose what Chenle had overheard him calling Taeyong’s ‘true nature’.

For now, though, Taeyong just had to smile and nod and pretend that what Hyunjun said had any value.

“You know I always think of the country in every decision I make,” he started and Taeyong fought to keep his face level even as he wanted to snort at the blatant lie, “and it seems to me that the kingdom isn’t getting the most out of these peace talks. If you put me into a higher position ‒ maybe gave me a seat at centre table ‒ in court, I am sure that I could negotiate to get us far more than we are currently on track for.”

“And whose seat would you suggest you take?” Taeyong could see Jungwoo making his way across the hall, walking quickly.

“Well, I mean no offence, Your Highness.” Unlikely. “But it seems that you yourself remain rather silent during negotiations.” 

Taeyong almost scoffed. The audacity. The absolute audacity.

It was so apparent what Hyunjun was trying to do. He wanted one of two things: Taeyong to give up his own seat, or to get angry and betray his persona of the delicate prince. And Taeyong refused to give him either. No matter how angry he was.

“You want the prince of Meridianam to remove himself from the discussions for the future of Meridianam?”

Jungwoo was a few steps away now.

“I think it is certainly more fitting for the Prince of Whispers to remain in the shadows.”

Jungwoo stepped up to the pair of them, nodding at Hyunjun. Taeyong turned towards him.

“Jungwoo,” he said, “Lord Hyunjun wants the prince of Meridianam to remove himself from the discussions about the future of Meridianam.”

Taeyong could see Jungwoo suppress a grimace.

“Does he? Well,” Jungwoo faced Hyunjun, “if you wouldn’t mind speaking to me about your thoughts on the matter and I’d be happy to relay them to His Highness.”

Hyunjun smiled in that horribly condescending way of his.

“Of course, I wouldn’t deign to think myself important enough to warrant extended conversation with the prince himself. I would be honoured to speak to one of his lackeys instead.”

Goodness, Taeyong hated him. He thought of a million ways to tell him with subtle implications and subtext but then he really could not find it in himself to care anymore. He had only spoken to one suitor; he was tired already and he really did not have the time or mental capacity to spend on Lord Hyunjun and his passive aggressive bordering on plain old aggressive aggressive comments.

“Fantastic,” Taeyong chirped, and took maybe just a little too much glee in the affronted look in Hyunjun’s eyes. “I’ll let you two be, then. If you’ll excuse me.”

And he started back on his way to the other side of the ballroom, only throwing Jungwoo a quick look of apology and good luck as he went.

He looked towards the northern most alcove and found it full of foreign guests but devoid of the guard he knew was meant to be stationed there. He felt a frown take over his face but quickly realigned it into a smile, even as dejection crawled through his chest. His eyes searched through the crowd, hoping he was just overlooking him. But he knew that Johnny was not an easy man to miss.

He saw Jaehyun prowling near the edges and was about to go and ask him when he heard someone call his name.

He turned to see the first prince of Anatolia, dressed smartly in a velvet ensemble waving at him as he approached.

Johnny would have to wait, wherever he was. And out of his peripheral, Taeyong could see Princess Sooyoung of Utara eyeing him from her conversation with Princess Krystal. He sighed internally. Johnny may have to wait for quite a while.

“Prince Sehun,” he greeted with a bow. “I’m happy you could come.”

  
  


 

Sehun’s hands lingered on Taeyong’s waist just a moment too long before he stepped back and bowed, gentle smile spreading over his face as he kept eye contact with Taeyong.

“You really are beautiful, Taeyong,” he said quietly, barely audible over the chatter and music in the ballroom but it reached Taeyong’s ears like it had been shouted.

Taeyong opened his mouth to thank him, but Sehun just took a step backwards and spoke again, louder this time. “I look forward to meeting you again, Your Highness.”

Taeyong watched as he turned around and made his way over to Prince Jongdae, whom Taeyong assumed he knew. Taeyong himself turned around, only to almost walk straight into Princess Amber, who smiled before introducing herself. It was a ridiculous formality, introductions. As though there was anyone at the ball that whose name Taeyong had not memorised, whose life he had not learnt about.

His eyes once more flit to the northern alcove, still not finding what ‒ who ‒ he was looking for. He trained his attention back on Princess Amber, laughing airily at whatever she had just said.

  
  


 

It was almost eleven when his mother ascended the staircase and the music stopped. Johnny was still nowhere to be seen. All the people in the hall ceased their conversations and turned to face her. Taeyong was no different.

He moved into an alcove at the back of the hall, and listened to her as she spoke of welcoming guests and being grateful for their presence. She mentioned Taeyong, talked about how proud she was of him, with something genuinely loving in her voice and all eyes turned to face him in unison.

Taeyong’s gaze went through the crowd, mentally checking off every potential spouse he had already spoken to and counting whom he had left. It was a longer list than he would like.

Fatigue gnawed at his bones, buried deep into them and begged him to take a rest. His cheek muscles hurt from fake smiles and laughter and his eyelids felt impossibly heavy. It was beyond tiring, to keep up pretences for hours on end. And the lessons didn’t make it any easier. Not when the entire night he had felt like someone was looming behind him, breathing down his back and putting him on edge.

The ribbon around his throat was suddenly too tight, like it was choking him.

His mother’s speech wouldn’t be over for some time. And then Joohyun would speak. And then there would be a dance in which Taeyong did not have to participate. He was supposed to talk to more people instead.

He looked at Joohyun, standing just behind their mother alongside Jinyoung. And then, below them, in his own alcove, was Captain Jackson Wang of Occidens. He stood with Yuta and Jeno, and even though he had been as energetic as usual for most of the night, in this moment, when no one but Taeyong was looking at him, his gaze was absent as he looked at Jinyoung and Joohyun.

And Taeyong decided he had had enough.

He moved, quietly and without drawing attention to himself, to the back of his alcove where there was an exit to the gardens. He had time. And he couldn’t find it in him to care about tradition and looking proper when there was a chance at happiness outside of this ballroom. And maybe it wasn’t long term, but a few moments of joy would make everything worth it. A few moments of joy, of indulgence, for a lifetime of duty and service.

And maybe, just maybe, Taeyong thought he deserved that much.

Just as he was about to slip out, long fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist and Doyoung was looking at him incredulously. Trust him to have been watching when no one else was.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” He hissed.

“I won’t be long.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Taeyong fixed him with a look. “I feel like you know what I’m doing.”

“You’re right; I do. And you can’t.”

“I know,” Taeyong said, and pulled his wrist from Doyoung’s grip. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

“And what am I supposed to say if someone asks after you?”

“You’ll think of something.” Taeyong tapped Doyoung’s head. “Use that big brain of yours, Scholar Kim.”

Doyoung sighed, resigned. “He’s in the training grounds.”

“How-”

“Jaemin,” Doyoung cut him off. “Be quick.”

“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”

  
  


 

Johnny swung his sword into the side of the dummy with enough force that it cut through the wood, and it accosted him more effort than it should have done for him to prise the blade back out. He grunted when he finally did so, and then resumed his position to begin another barrage of attacks.

He hadn’t been able to find the courage to attend the ball, even though he was dressed in his formal robes and they restricted his movements as he fought his one sided fight against the training dummy. He had unbuttoned the first three buttons of his dress shirt, so that it hung open and exposed his chest to the cold night air, and his cufflinks lay on the bench inside the barracks where he had tossed them upon deciding he would stay here, after spending too long looking at his reflection and scrutinising every detail of his appearance. His jacket hung where his sword usually would.

He wouldn’t be able to compete.

Not with princes and princesses from distant lands with their jewels and fancy language and presents. His sword dug into the body of the dummy repeatedly, the sound loud and dull in the quiet of the empty training grounds.

It wouldn’t matter, anyway. No matter how he looked or what he wore, he would still never have a title. He would still never be a prince. And that made him swing his sword even harder.

It wouldn’t matter to Taeyong, who ignored his existence in public and pretended their history together meant nothing. It wouldn’t matter to Taeyong, who wouldn’t miss his presence at the ball anyway.

Johnny wasn’t made for such things. And he didn’t know if he could stand to watch Taeyong in all his beautiful grandeur be passed around from royal to royal all night acting like something he wasn’t. He didn’t know if he could stand to watch as Taeyong got further and further away from the Taeyong he had known all those years ago. As he got further and further away from him.

Because he was strong enough to fight wars and lead armies but he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to have his heart broken like that.

“Johnny.”

Johnny whirled around, and his sword clattered to the floor when he saw Taeyong standing there.

Taeyong looked every bit the prince he was. He was so devastatingly beautiful and Johnny felt his throat constrict. Taeyong, dressed in soft white clothes with golden trimmings and hair pushed back to showcase his sharp features, softened by his wide eyes. And standing here, amongst the clutter of the empty training barracks, it was just all too obvious how different they were. How out of place Taeyong was in Johnny’s world. How impossible it would ever be for anything to exist between them.

Johnny stood still for a few moments before he remembered that Taeyong shouldn’t be there. That he had royals to bewitch, kingdoms to infiltrate.

“What are you doing here?” It came out breathy, a touch too harsh and Taeyong flinched ‒ a tiny motion Johnny wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking so closely ‒ before Taeyong collected his hands together behind his back and took a step forward.

“I was looking for you, actually. I wanted to talk to you at the ball and show you that I'm not afraid of being seen talking to you in public. And then, I was going to break tradition by doing something very improper, risk the wrath of all my teachers and ask you to dance. But you weren't there. Which, I must say, is very poor form. Abandoning your post already, Captain Seo? What if there had been an attack?”

Johnny’s mind went entirely blank as he tried to process what Taeyong had said.

“Yo- you what?”

Taeyong giggled. He took another step towards Johnny.

“I wanted to dance with you, Johnny.”

He said it so softly, like a hushed secret between children, a gentle breeze in the evening air and Johnny’s breath stilted.

“You were right,” Taeyong continued, in that same tone, “when you said I was treating you poorly. But you were wrong to think I don’t care about you. I care about you so much, Johnny. And that’s why it’s dangerous for me to interact with you where others can see. But then I started thinking and I thought that if there’s one person who could dance with a low-born and try to make it normal behaviour, it would be the kingdom’s most beloved prince.”

Taeyong smiled, a little abashed, and Johnny felt his heart swell.

“It’s my duty to help improve the kingdom. And acceptance is part of that. Teaching others that titles don’t mean as much as character. That’s what I’d like part of my legacy to be. And,” Taeyong looked straight at him then, “I’d like you to be a part of that. I’d like it if, one day, we didn’t have to bother with the secrets and the whispers and I could talk to you without caring about how it looks to others.”

Johnny felt something he couldn’t name seize his heart.

It wouldn’t seem like much to anyone else but Johnny knew better. He knew what it meant. And he tried to pretend it was enough. He tried to pretend he didn’t yearn for far more than he knew Taeyong could give him. But Taeyong was trying. And that meant more than Johnny could say.

“I’d like that, too,” he said.

And the smile that split Taeyong’s face, so beguiling and true, made everything worth it.

“I’m sorry, too,” Johnny said. Taeyong shook his head and opened his mouth but Johnny spoke before he could. “I didn’t consider why you were acting the way you did and I spoke from a place of hurt.”

Taeyong just shook his head again.

“While I would love to dance with you,” Johnny said, voice lighter than it had been a moment ago. “I don’t think I should go into the ballroom all sweaty and dishevelled as I am now.” He gestured to his clothes and saw Taeyong stifle a laugh.

“It's loud,” Taeyong said, looking at the light from where Johnny knew the ballroom was. “We can hear the music all the way from here.” Taeyong's voice sounded faraway, but when he looked back at Johnny he felt more real than he ever had before.

“May I have this dance, Johnny Seo?”

Taeyong extended his hand.

“I don't know how.”

“It's fine. You've spent enough time watching me.”

Johnny smiled, and placed his hand over Taeyong’s.

“Just follow my lead,” Taeyong said.

Johnny would follow Taeyong to the ends of the earth, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he allowed Taeyong to pull him close, adjust his hands so that one rested on Taeyong’s waist. It felt surreal; being able to hold Taeyong like this, and Johnny’s heart hammered erratically in his chest where it had laid dormant for almost five years.

Taeyong was a good head or so shorter than him, and Johnny had to look down to make eye contact, losing himself in Taeyong’s dark eyes, so open now and Johnny revelled in how he was one of the only people to see him as honest as this.

Taeyong nudged Johnny’s foot with his own, and Johnny took the hint to step backwards, in time with Taeyong and the music. It was easy enough, to find his way around the beat, with Taeyong taking him through it.

But Johnny thought that everything would be easier with Taeyong looking at him like that, holding his hand, and smiling. With a smile like that, Johnny could almost forget about everything else. He could almost forget that this was likely the last time they would be given a chance to do something like this.

And even though Johnny had been back in Meridianam for weeks, only now did he truly feel like he was home.

  
  


 

Johnny’s footsteps were blocky, heavy every time they fell onto the ground. And it was so different to the light, elegant taps of everyone Taeyong had been dancing with all night, that he couldn’t help but let out a giggle. Johnny’s ears went red.

“I’m trying my best,” he muttered.

“I’m sure you are,” Taeyong said, teasing.

The music was soft, but audible enough that they could dance to it, and Taeyong allowed himself the decadence of Johnny’s hold. Johnny’s hand on his waist, Johnny’s feet stepping time with his, Johnny, Johnny Johnny.

They swayed gently, a fierce sort of affection blooming between them as they moved together. They danced freely, flowing around the empty space. Taeyong twirled himself under Johnny’s arm and pressed their chests together. Johnny held him there, his arm careful but strong around his waist and their faces were so close when Taeyong looked up that he could see Johnny’s face in such wondrous detail and Taeyong was hit by the realisation that this was real.

And though it might not be real for much longer, Taeyong let himself live in these few moments where it was. And he lived in the moments he could spend tucked into Johnny’s chest as though he belonged there.

The song drew quiet, to the point that they could no longer hear it, but it didn’t deter them. They danced together with slow, lilting spins in silence.

And Taeyong was taken back to the ballroom. Not as it was that night, but how it was years and years ago. Before war and death and duties. Back to the dark silence of the hall in the dead of night and the simple melodies carried through the air from the keys of the piano.

He began to hum. Slightly disjointed at first, as he struggled to dig the correct notes from where he had buried the memory, but they grew into a full tune as he remembered it note by note.

Johnny’s eyes widened with understanding, and his expression melted from surprise into something overwhelmingly fond as he joined in.

They danced to their memories under the light of the southern star, the din of the ballroom lost to the world around them.

They strung out the final note, and stood still after it finished.

“ _ Ours _ ,” Johnny breathed out.

“ _ Ours, _ ” Taeyong affirmed.

The word hung in the air like an unspoken promise. They held eye contact as the world slowly started to filter back into focus around them.

“I should go back,” Taeyong murmured, and hated how quickly Johnny’s face fell, how quickly his face grew sober.

Johnny nodded, slowly, like he had to convince himself to do so.

“You should.” Taeyong knew that he wanted to continue, but once the words were spoken into existence, it would be impossible to retract them. Neither of them were strong enough for that.

A few beats passed.

Taeyong stepped away, and his arms fell limply to his sides.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Captain Seo,” he said.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Hearing the difference in their rank spoken aloud was akin to being doused in ice water. Taeyong turned around. Walking out of the training grounds felt like walking out of a dream.

  
  


 

Taeyong danced dutifully with the first prince of Auferetur to a strictly timed waltz. He was nice, if a little entitled, though Taeyong supposed that was to be expected. Taeyong laughed at his jokes and returned his compliments with ones of his own.

Their holds on each other were stiff and the movements of the dance were boxy and restrained. He could feel the eyes of the other people in the ballroom watching them carefully. He was the topic of much speculation, and even more so as the night drew to a close and people began to speculate on whom he had been impressed by.

As though his marital decisions would be based off of personality rather than wealth and power.

_ One, two, three. One, two, three.  _ He counted the beats in his head, feet landing solidly with each count.

Something dense filled his chest, wove itself around his heart and poured into his lungs like water. Longing. That’s what it was. Desperate, selfish, unbridled longing. A strange sort of melancholy even as he was surrounded by people.

And he danced without it leaving his heart. And longed for something beyond the confines of the ballroom, beyond the watching eyes and beyond tradition.

_ One, two, three. _

It was such a dangerous thing to think and an even more dangerous thing to feel but Taeyong could not help it.

_ One, two, three. _

He longed for Johnny.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again im sorry this chapter took so long i hope it was worth the wait <33
> 
> please validate me by leaving kudos and comments xx
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/whatisanult) [cc](https://curiouscat.me/whatisanult)


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